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 the good nature of his more lucky younger brother.
What a sad letter it seemed, read in that light.

And how every word drove the unhappy heir of Maxfield deeper and deeper into the slough of perplexity.
Three weeks ago, when his dead father's letter had come into his hands, he had not hesitated for a moment as to his duty or his desire in the matter.

He had cheerfully accepted the task of finding that lost, aggrieved, perhaps hardly-used brother, to whom his heart went out as he gazed on the likeness of what he once had been.
But now! To abdicate in favour of this blackguard.

To look for him, to tell him that Maxfield was his, to have to depend on his generosity for a livelihood, to see the good name of Ingleton represented in the county by a drunken profligate.