Fred Bingham sat in stupified astonishment. The shock was too great and too sudden for even his constitutional coolness. His first thought, when he did think, was,—was this a mere ruse on the part of his uncle, or was he really deceived? As he looked at the old man's serious face, and remembered his perfect simple-mindedness and frankness, he saw at once that his uncle was acting no double part—that he really believed it was Frank, and not himself, who had been the offender. Fred remembered, too, that the servant had said Alice was ill and keeping her room, and he was very certain that the news of his own downfall would not so affect her. It was evident that Frank was really looked upon as the offender. Once conscious of this, a whirl of thought flashed through his brain. How could this extraordinary mistake have occurred?—and, more important still, should he profit by it and keep up the error, or should he confess the fault was his own, and throw himself on his uncle's mercy? While he was yet debating the question, Captain Bradshaw went on.
“The old man asked for justice and punishment on the destroyer of his child, and he shall have it. Until now, Fred, I tell you fairly, Frank has been my favourite nephew. From the time he was a child, I have looked upon him as my son and heir, and I had left him two-thirds of all my property, the remainder to yourself. I yesterday wrote to my solicitor, requesting him to draw out a new will, leaving everything to yourself.”
Fred was decided now. He would risk it. It was evident that if he confessed the fault, he should get nothing; if he could keep up this extraordinary mistake, he should get all; and he really risked nothing, for if he were found out, he should be no worse off then than if he confessed now. It was worth trying for, at any rate. A host of dangers rose up before him, but he put them aside to consider and meet them as they might occur. It was a great stake he was playing for. The whole of Mr. Bradshaw's estates, or nothing; for if he confessed, he should certainly get nothing. He spoke coolly and collectedly.
“I thank you for your kind intentions, uncle, but I can hardly think of this now, I am so surprised, so shocked at this terrible story. I could not have believed that Frank would do such a thing. I knew he was rash and headstrong. I heard, indeed, some stories whispered about him at Cambridge, but I could never—no, not for a moment—have believed him capable of such a cold-blooded villany as this seems to have been. Oh, uncle, there must surely be some mistake.”