'I always wrote to his private address, you know, Susan,' he went on. 'Mat told me that no one ever opened his letters but himself; but how am I to find him out now if he chooses to hide himself from his only brother?'
And though Tom said no more, he moped for many a day after that fruitless expedition.
By and by the truth leaked out—Mat was in trouble, and in such trouble that no fraternal help could avail him. One awful day, a day that turned Tom's hair gray with horror and anguish, he heard that Mat—handsome, brilliant Mat—was in a felon's cell, condemned to penal servitude for a long term of years. In a moment of despair he had forged the name of one of his so-called friends, and by this terrible act had obtained possession of a large sum of money.
Tom's anguish at this news was not to be described; he cried like a child, and Susan vainly tried to comfort him.
'My father's name,' he kept repeating—'he has disgraced our honest name! I will never forgive him; I will have nothing more to do with him—he has covered us all with shame!'
And then the next moment he relented at the thought of Mat, beaten down and miserable, and perhaps repentant, in his wretched cell.
CHAPTER X
PRISCILLA BAXTER
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