Dick, however, does not
know this, and cannot resist the temptation to destroy the old miner's
letter, and grab the property. We know, of course, that retribution is
bound to descend upon him; but does not dramatic effect imperatively
require that, for a brief space at any rate, he should be seen--with
whatever qualms of conscience his nature might dictate--enjoying his
ill-gotten wealth? Mr. Jerome, however, baulks us of this just
expectation. In the very first scene of the second act we find that the
game is up. The deceased miner wrote his letter to Dick seated in the
doorway of a hut; a chance photographer took a snap-shot at him; and on
returning to England, the chance photographer has nothing more pressing
to do than to chance upon the one man who knows the long-lost son, and
to show him the photograph of the dying miner, whom he at once
recognizes. By aid of a microscope, the letter he is writing can be
deciphered, and thus Dick's fraud is brought home to him. Now one would
suppose that an author who had invented this monstrous and staggering
concatenation of chances, must hope to justify it by some highly
dramatic situation, in the obvious and commonplace sense of the word.
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