a that the Indian chum who made such a long journey to pay him a
visit at Maxfield was really the man to whom the place ought to have
belonged if every one had his rights. Of course I soon found out my
mistake. The old man kept up his grudge to the end, and cut me out of
his will without even a shilling. So you've nothing to be afraid of.
I dare say when you come into the property you will do something for
your big brother. Meanwhile I don't expect much out of the pair of
hypocrites my father chose to leave as your guardians. But as I am
hard up, and you can probably do what you like with your pocket-money,
let me have a L10 note once and again, say fortnightly, addressed to
Robert Ratman, to be called for at the General Post Office. If I
don't get this, I shall conclude the Ingletons are true to their
reputation of being a good deal fonder of their money than their flesh
and blood.

"I don't know whether I shall turn up again or not. It will depend
pretty much on what I hear. No doubt you've set me down as a cad and
a blackleg. Perhaps I am. I've not had the advantages you have.
But, cad or no cad, I've a right to sign myself your brother,--

"Roger Ingleton, _alias_ Robert Ratman."

Roger read this remarkable epistle once or twice, in a state of mind
bordering on stupefaction. Robert Ratman, cad, sharper, blasphemer,
insolent profligate, his brother! The notion was ludicrous. And yet,
when he tried to laugh, the laugh died on his lips. He walked over to
the portrait on the wall and looked at the wild, mocking boy's face
there. For a moment, as he met its gaze, it seemed to grow older and
coarser--the light died out of the eyes, the mouth lost its strength,
the lines of shame and vice came out on the brow. Then the old face
looked out again--the face of the lost Roger Ingleton.

"Ratman my brother!" he groaned to himself.

Then of a sudden he seemed to see it all. It was a fraud, an
imposition, an impudent plot to extort money. But no! As he read the
letter again that hope vanished. This was not the letter of an
impostor. Had it been, there would have been more about his rights,
more brotherly affection, a greater anxiety to appear in good colours.
As it was, the writer wrote in the reckless vein of a man who knows he
is detested and expects little; who owes a grudge to fortune for his bad
luck, and being hard up for money, appeals not to his rights, but to t