“O, Gregory Brace! Oh! shame on you. Oh! I don't know you. I can't believe it's you. I can't believe it's the same boy at all. Such selfishness! Such ingratitude! Such a proud hard heart! It's been as much as anyone could do to put up with you for ever and ever so long, you've been so vain and so conceited and everything; but this just caps the climax. Oh! think of poor Mr. Finkelstein. He's been so good and generous to you, and so fond of you; and he's sent you to school and college, and given you every advantage he possibly could; and you owe him so much, and you're under such great obligations to him, for he took you right out of the streets, and gave you a home, and made a son of you, instead of a servant—yes, he did—and now the very first thing that you propose to do, as soon as you're able to, is to leave him, to abandon him—oh! you ungrateful thing—and go to your horrid old French uncle, who, I don't believe cares the snap of his finger for you. He is horrid, too; and I hope he'll just treat you horribly, just to punish you. And I hope that Arthur Ripley is mistaken, and that you won't get a single penny from your Uncle Peter, but just a good whipping to take you down; and I hope you'll have to come back to Mr. Finkelstein, and humbly beg his pardon; yes, I do, with all my heart and soul. I'd just like to see you have to come down from your high horse and eat humble pie for a while; yes, I would. The idea! Desert Mr. Finkelstein! You, who might have been begging in the streets, except for him! I should think you'd be ashamed to look me in the face. Oh! you mean to give him a good round sum of money, do you, to pay him for what he's done for you? Why, how very liberal and noble you are, to be sure! As though money could pay for what Mr. Finkelstein has done for you! As though money were what he wants from you, and not love and affection! O, Gregory! you've changed so that I don't know you, and I don't like you at all any more, and I don't care to be friends with you any more, and you needn't come to see me any more. There!”

Yes, I felt very sore and very angry. What Rosalind said only served to exasperate and embitter me, and to make me grit my teeth, and pursue all the more doggedly my own selfish purpose.

Well, on Monday night, according to our agreement, Ripley and I set out for Norwich, passengers aboard the very same steamboat, the City of Lawrence, that I had come to New York by, three years before; and bright and early Tuesday morning we reached our destination.

I only wish I could spare a page to tell you something of the emotions that I felt as we came in sight of the dingy old town. It had not changed the least bit in the world; it was like the face of an old familiar friend; it called up before me my own self of former years; it brought a thousand memories surging upon me, and filled my heart with a strong, unutterable melancholy, that was yet somehow indescribably sweet and tender.

But Ripley and I had no time for the indulgence of sentiment. “Now, then, where's the Court House? Where's the Probate Office?” he demanded as soon as we had set foot upon the dry land. “We must pitch right in, without losing a moment.”

So I led him to the Probate Court; and there he “pitched right in” with a vengeance, examining the indices to lots of big written books of records, while I stood by to hand them to him, and to put them back in their places when he had finished with them—until, after an hour or so, he announced, “Well, Greg, you're right. She left no will.”

Then he continued: “Now we must find out the date upon which Peter took out his Letters of Administration, and also whether he had himself constituted your guardian, as he most likely did; and then we'll have all the facts we need to establish your claims, and put you in possession.”

Thereupon he attacked another set of big written volumes, and with these he was busy as long as two hours more. In the end, “By Jingo, Greg,” he cried, “here's a state of things! He didn't take out any Letters of Administration at all.”

“Well,” I queried, not understanding the meaning of this circumstance, “what of that? What does that signify?”

“Why, that signifies an even darker and more systematic piece of fraud than I had suspected. In order to cheat you out of your share, he failed to comply with the law. He didn't go through the proper formalities to get control of her property, but simply took possession of it without authority. And now we've got him completely at our mercy. We could prosecute him criminally, if we liked. We could send him to State Prison. Oh! won't we make him hop? I say, Greg, do you want to have some fun?”

“How? What way?”

“Well, sir, if you want to have some fun, I'll tell you what let's do. Let's go call on your Uncle Peter, and confront him with this little piece of villainy, and politely ask him to explain it: and then see him squirm. It'll sort of square accounts with him for the number of times he's given you a flogging.”

“O, no! I—I guess we'd better not,” I demurred, faltering at the prospect of a personal encounter with my redoubtable relative.

“But, man alive, you have nothing to fear. We've got the whip-hand of him. Just think, we can threaten him with criminal prosecution. Oh! come on. It'll be the jolliest kind of a lark.”

Well, I allowed myself to be persuaded; and we set forth for Uncle Peter's office, Ripley all agog for excitement, and I trying not to appear afraid. But Uncle Peter wasn't in. An oldish man, who seemed to be in charge, informed us that the Jedge had got a touch of the rheumatiz, and was stayin' hum.

“Never mind,” said Ripley to me; “we'll visit him at his home, we'll beard him in his den. Come along!”

I tried to beg off, but Rip insisted; and I weakly gave in.

If I had been stirred by strong emotions at the sight of Norwich City, conceive how much more deeply I was stirred when we reached Norwich Town—when I saw our old house peeping out from among the great elm-trees that embosomed it—when I actually stood upon its doorstep, with my hand upon the old brass knocker! A strange servant girl opened the door, and to my request to see Judge Brace, replied, “The Jedge is sick in his room.”

“That doesn't matter,” I explained. “You know, I am his nephew. Tell him his nephew Gregory wants to see him.” And I marched boldly through the hall—where the same tall eight-day clock, with its silver face that showed the phases of the moon, was ticking just as it had used to tick as long ago as I could remember—and into the parlor, Ripley following. I say I marched in boldly, yet I was really frightened half to death, as the moment of a face-to-face meeting with my terrible uncle became so imminent. There in the parlor stood the piano upon which my grandmother had labored so patiently to teach me to play. There hung the oil portrait of her, in her robe of cream-colored silk, taken when she was a beautiful young girl, and there, opposite it, above the fireplace, the companion-picture of my Uncle Florimond, in his lieutenant's uniform, with his sword and his crimson sash. Ripley started back a little when he saw this painting, and cried, “For mercy's sake, Greg, who is it? I never saw anything like it. The same eyes, nose, mouth, chin, everything. It's you all over”—thus confirming what my grandmother used to tell me: “Gregory, thou art his living image.” The room was haunted by a myriad dear associations. I forgot the errand that had brought me there; I forgot my fear of meeting Uncle Peter; I forgot all of the recent past, and was carried back to the happiest days of my childhood; and my heart just swelled, and thrilled, and ached. But next instant it gave a great spasmodic leap, and stood still for a second, and then began to gallop ahead like mad, while a perspiration broke out over my forehead; for the maid-servant entered, and said “Please walk upstairs to the Jedge's room.” I really thought I should faint. It was as much as I could do to get my breath. My knees knocked together. My hands shook like those of an aged palsy-stricken man. However, there was no such thing as backing out at this late date; so I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and led Ripley upstairs to Uncle Peter's room.

Uncle Peter was seated in an arm-chair, with his legs, wrapped in a comforter, stretched out on another chair in front of him. He never so much as said how-d'-ye-do? or anything; but at once, scowling at us, asked in his gruffest voice, “Well, what do you want?”

I was so afraid and so abashed that I could hardly speak; but I did contrive to point at Ripley, and gasp, “He—he'll tell you.”

“Well,” snapped Uncle Peter, turning to my spokesman, “go on. State your business.”

“Well, sir,” began Rip—and O, me! as I listened to him, didn't my wonder at his wisdom, and my admiration of his eloquence, mount up a peg?—“well, sir, our business is very simple, and can be stated in a very few words. The amount of it is simply this. My friend Gregory Brace, being the only child of Edward Brace, deceased, who was a son of your mother, Aurore Brace, deceased, is, equally with yourself, the heir and next-of-kin of the said decedent, and would, in the event of her having died intestate, divide share and share alike with you whatever property she left. Now, sir, we have caused a search to be made in the records of the Probate Court of this County, and we find that the said decedent did in fact die intestate. It, therefore, became your duty to petition for Letters of Administration upon her estate; to cite Gregory Brace to show cause why such Letters should not be issued; to cause a guardian ad litem to be appointed to act for him in the proceedings; to cause a permanent guardian to be appointed for him after the issuance of said Letters; and then to apply the rents, profits, and income of one undivided half of the estate of said decedent to his support, maintenance and education, allowing what excess there might be to accrue to his benefit. Well, sir, examination proves that you have performed none of these duties; that you have illegally and without warrant or authority possessed yourself of the whole of said estate, thereby committing a fraud upon the said Gregory Brace, and violating the statutes in such case made and provided. And now, sir, we have come here to give you notice that it is our intention to put this matter at once into the hands of an attorney, with directions that he proceed against you, both criminally and civilly.” Uncle Peter heard Ripley through without interrupting, though an ugly smile flickered about his lips. When Rip had done, he lay back in his chair, and gave a loud harsh laugh. Then he drew a long, mock-respectful face, and in a very dry, sarcastic manner spoke as follows:—

“Why, my young friend, you talk like a book. And what profound and varied knowledge of the law you do possess, to be sure! Why, I must congratulate my nephew upon having found such an able and sagacious advocate. And really, I cannot see the necessity of your calling in the services of an attorney, for a person of your distinguished calibre ought certainly to be equal to conducting this dual prosecution, both civil and criminal, single-handed. My sakes alive!” he cried, with a sudden change of tone and bearing. “Do you know what I've a great mind to do with you and your client, my fine young fellow? I've a great mind to cane you both within an inch of your precious lives, and send you skulking away, with your tails between your legs, like two whipped puppies. But, bless me, no! You're neither of you worth the trouble. So I'll spare my rod, and spoil your fancy, by giving you a small measure of information. Now, then, pray tell me, Mr. Advocate, what is your valuation of the property which the 'said decedent' left?”

Ripley, nothing daunted, answered, “At least a hundred thousand dollars.”

“At least a hundred thousand dollars,” repeated Uncle Peter; “well, that's a pretty sum. Well, now, what would you say, my learned friend, if I should tell you that she didn't leave a penny?”

“I should say it was very extraordinary, and that I couldn't believe it. She was the widow of a wealthy man. She lived in good style. It stands to reason that she couldn't have died penniless.”

“And so it does; it stands to reason, as you say; and yet penniless she was when she died, and penniless she had been for ten years before; and if she lived in good style, it was because I paid the bills; and if this young cub, my nephew, wore good clothes and ate good dinners, it was my charity he had to thank. Little by little, stick by stick, my mother disposed of all the property her husband left her, selling the bulk of it to me, and sending the proceeds to France, to help to reconstruct the fortunes of her family there, who were ruined by the revolution. She was a pauper when she died; and that's why I took out no Letters of Administration—because there was nothing to administrate upon. There, now I've told you more than I was under any obligation to; and now, both of you, get out!”

“Come, Greg,” said Rip, “let's go.”

We went. Out of doors, I began, “Well, Rip”—

“Well, Greg,” Rip interrupted, “we've been on a fool's errand, a wild-goose chase, and the less said about it the better.”

“And I—I'm not rich, after all?”

“That's what's the matter, Greg. If she didn't leave any property—you see, we took it for granted that she did—why, there's nothing for you to inherit. It's too bad, old fellow; but then, you're no worse off than you were in the beginning. Anyhow, there's no use crying over spilt milk. Come on; let's take the afternoon train to New York.”

So my fine castle in the air had fallen to pieces like a house of cards. I tell you, it was a mighty crest-fallen young gentleman, in a very humble frame of mind, who sat next to Arthur Ripley that afternoon in the train that was speeding to New York.