I gathered all these facts later—his step-mother retired to her cosy little boudoir, in which, lounging in an easy chair, she found her son Anthony.
He was a pleasant-looking youth, of small build and stature, with large dark eyes, clean-cut thin features and black hair, which he had inherited from his mother.
"Francis is here," she said. "My poor Anthony, you will soon be almost a beggar. Sir Geoffrey has, as you know, left everything to him, with the exception of a life-income to me and a miserable pittance to you. Oh, what an injustice, and a shame!—to a lout like that—it maddens me, Anthony!"
"But why, mother?"
"The will is this: if Francis survives his father practically everything is his, to do as he likes with—and we must go. You know he hates me! But if your half-brother died first, Anthony, the estate would be yours."
"That's no good to me, mother," answered the young man. "Francis is as strong as a horse, so it's evidently settled. Poor father can't live long, but I'll talk to old Frank tonight, and see what he'll do for me. I can't work, and he knows it. Oh! he'll see me put all right. He must help me."
