"Did you withdraw any money this morning?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"You must excuse me, Mrs. Lane, but that is my own private business."
"You are quite mistaken. You are my stepson, and you are under my guardianship."
"I suppose, then, you have charge of my property. Let me know how much it is."
Mrs. Lane winced.
"You have no property," she said, coldly, "except what money you may have in the savings bank."
"Then I am to understand that none of the property belonging to my father comes to me."
"You will receive a certain advantage from it. Your home is in this house, and the dinner you are eating is provided with your father's money."
"Yet you want me to pay you half the money I am to receive for work!"
"Yes; but if you are guided by my wishes, I shall lay it aside for you, to be given to you hereafter."
"I am not prepared to say that I shall be guided by your wishes."
"Do you positively refuse to tell me how much money you have in the savings bank?"
"I do."
"I require you to give me your bank-book. It is proper that I should keep it."
Gerald expected this.
"Mrs. Lane, ever since I had any money in the bank, the book has been in my possession. My father desired me to keep it."
"Your father was foolishly indulgent."
"I don't think you are likely to be. Perhaps you will tell me what you want of the book?"
"I want to prevent your withdrawing any more money."
"So I supposed, and that is the reason why I decline to give you the book."
"Very well; we will drop the subject for the present. I trust that with time for reflection you will take a different view of your duty."
Gerald was surprised at his stepmother's change of front.
"She wants to put me off my guard," he decided. "She will search my room for the book."
As there was but a dollar to his credit now, this didn't disturb him particularly, nor did it prevent his going to his chamber and putting the book into his trunk.
"I should like to be here when she finds it," he said to himself.
Gerald had promised to go out on the pond in his boat, and John had agreed to go with him. He stopped at his friend's house on the way, and John joined him.
Meanwhile Mrs. Lane waited till Gerald was safely distant, and then with a look of expectation, ascended the staircase to his room. She had noticed that her stepson went up-stairs, and thought it probable that he had put the book away.
Gerald's trunk was in one corner of the room. It was locked, but this did not interpose any obstacle. Mrs. Lane kneeled down in front of it and took from her pocket a bunch of keys. She did not immediately find one that fitted the lock, but presently the right key turned up.
"Ha!" she said, triumphantly, as the key turned in the lock and the lid was raised. "Now, Master Gerald, we will see how much money you have to your credit."
The bank-book was just below the tray, and no time was wasted in finding it.
She opened the book eagerly, and scanned the entries. But her first elation was succeeded by a look of anger and disappointment. Fifty dollars was entered to Gerald's credit, but his drafts amounted to forty-nine. There was only one dollar left.
"Two drafts this morning!" said Mrs. Lane, angrily. "What has he done with the money?"
She searched the trunk carefully, hoping to find somewhere a roll of bills, but as we know, she was doomed to disappointment.
"He is sly," she muttered; "but I will trap him yet."
She left the book in the tray, whereas it had been placed underneath. When Gerald opened his trunk, he discovered the change, and knew that his trunk had been opened and examined by his stepmother.
CHAPTER IV
THE LOST LETTER
Mrs. Lane's early life had been embittered by poverty, both before and after her first marriage. It was for this reason she married Mr. Lane, and for this reason also that she rejoiced in the possession of his property. She meant to make up for past privations by living liberally. Already she contemplated a series of journeys with her own son. As for Gerald, she had always disliked him, having an instinctive feeling that he distrusted and disliked her.
Mr. Lane's property was, except the home property, invested in stocks, bonds and bank deposits, and the task of an executor was therefore easy. She had lost no time, after her husband's death, in making an estimate of the value of the estate. Almost daily she opened the tin box of securities and looked them over. It was a feast for her eyes.
After her failure with Gerald's trunk she gave a few minutes to this congenial task. When it was over a look of pleasure lighted up her face.
"Fifty thousand dollars!" she said to herself. "That is, indeed, a windfall for one who, till two years since, was compelled to subsist on an income of less than twelve dollars a week. The arrangements I have made for Gerald will prevent his being much expense to me, and my husband's fortune will be under my own control. Within a few hours my son—my dear Abel—will be here, and there will be no further need of concealing his existence. Had Mr. Lane known that I had a son as old as his own it is doubtful if he would have married me. Well, it is all over now! And I shall have Abel with me hereafter."
From the bottom of the tin box she drew out a folded paper. It was in Mr. Lane's handwriting, and was addressed "To the Executor." It ran thus: "There is a possible claim against my estate, of which it is imperatively necessary that I should speak. Five years since my old friend and school-fellow, John Graves, on the eve of his departure for Australia, placed in my hands, for safekeeping, his entire fortune amounting to thirty thousand dollars. His wife had died; he had no heirs, and he had made up his mind to take a long journey to occupy his mind, and if possible assuage his grief. 'I may never come back,' he said, 'and in that case, old friend, the money I leave with you becomes yours. I could not leave it better than to my old schoolmate and friend.' I was touched by this proof of his confidence in me and assumed the trust. From time to time I heard of him, but for two years no tidings have come of the wanderer. Whether he is still living I cannot tell. If dead, the property is mine. It will more than double any estate I may leave; but I cannot be certain. I sincerely hope that John is still alive. Though two years have passed, he is liable to return at any time and reclaim the sum he placed in my hands. Should this claim be made after my death, it will be the sacred duty of my executor to give him back his own. Even if he has lost the acknowledgment I gave him, this property must be given up on his proving his identity. There will still be left of my own property a sum sufficient to support those whom I leave behind me in modest style."
This was the paper, signed by Ernest Lane, which Mrs. Lane read with frowning brow. It was the one drop of bitterness in her cup.
"Thirty thousand dollars!" she reflected. "Why, that would leave me only twenty thousand. It would be insufficient to carry out my plans. Probably this man Graves is dead; but should he reappear it would be a terrible disappointment. The money must and shall remain in my possession! I will deny the claim if it is ever made. But should this paper be found—should it remain in evidence—this would be impossible. Better destroy it. It is the only safe way."
She locked the box of papers and put it in the safe. The important paper she was about to take and dispose of when there was a cry of terror in the kitchen. Laying the paper on the table temporarily, she ran down-stairs to find that a fierce dog had made his way into the kitchen to the great alarm of the cook. Mrs. Lane was no coward. She seized a broom, and with well-directed blows drove the animal out. Then she went up-stairs to destroy the message from Mr. Lane.
It was gone!
In