Mrs. Wittleworth, when they
were in the street.

"I am sure I am not. That man has been tampered with! I'll speak to
Choate about that. Does that man mean to tell me that we have no
grounds for a suit?" replied Fitz, indignantly. "I shall find another
lawyer, who will undertake the case."

"You needn't do anything more about it. I am going to Mr. Checkynshaw's
now."

"Are you going to accept his offer?" almost gasped Fitz.

"I am."

"This is madness, mother."

"It would be madness not to accept it; and I will not let the sun go
down again before I close the business, if Mr. Checkynshaw is still of
the same mind."

"Will you give up a hundred thousand dollars for ten thousand?" groaned
Fitz. "We can live in Beacon Street, and ride in our carriage, if you
will only take my advice."

"I shall be more likely to ride in the Black Maria over to the
almshouse, if I take your advice. My mind is made up, Fitz," replied
his mother, very decidedly.

"I will go with you, mother," said Fitz, desperately.

"You needn't."

"I must be a witness of the transaction, for, in my opinion, it will be
a swindle on the part of Checkynshaw; and if I can pick him up on it I
mean to do so."

"Fitz, if you are impudent to Mr. Checkynshaw, he will put you out of
his office."

"I will not be impudent to him unless he is impudent to me."

Mrs. Wittleworth led the way now, and Fitz reluctantly followed her. He
was in despair. He actually believed his mother was selling out her
inheritance, a princely fortune, for a mere song; that she was
sacrificing the brightest hopes a person ever had. Indeed, he went a
point beyond this, and believed she was selling out his hopes and
expectations; that she was wronging him out of a brilliant future. But
Fitz might have comforted himself with the reflection that he had
vigorously opposed the sacrifice, and that it had been made on account
of no want of judgment and forethought on his part.

Fitz followed his mother into the banker's private office. Mrs.
Wittleworth herself was not entirely satisfied with the situation. She
was not at all sure that Marguerite had not died of cholera ten years
before. Mr. Checkynshaw's course rather indicated that he was playing a
deep game. Why did he want a quitclaim deed, if his rights were clear?
Why had he forged a letter from Marguerite, when he must have real
ones, if the daughter was still living? And it was not like him to give
ten thousand dollars to a