Adrift in New York: Tom and Florence Braving the World

Starting with guilty consciousness, Curtis turned sharply around, and his glance fell on the intruder.

“Who are you?” he demanded, angrily. “And how dare you enter a gentleman’s house unbidden?”

“Are you the gentleman?” asked the intruder, with intentional insolence.

“Yes.”

“You own this house?”

“Not at present. It is my uncle’s.”

“And that secretary—pardon my curiosity—is his?”

“Yes; but what business is it of yours?”

“Not much. Only it makes me laugh to see a gentleman picking a lock. You should leave such business to men like me!”

“You are an insolent fellow!” said Curtis, more embarrassed than he liked to confess, for this rough-looking man had become possessed of a dangerous secret. “I am my uncle’s confidential agent, and it was on business of his that I wished to open the desk.”

“Why not go to him for the key?”

“Because he is sick. But, pshaw! why should I apologize or give any explanation to you? What can you know of him or me?”

“More, perhaps, than you suspect,” said the intruder, quietly.

“Then, you know, perhaps, that I am my uncle’s heir?”

“Don’t be too sure of that.”

“Look here, fellow,” said Curtis, thoroughly provoked, “I don’t know who you are nor what you mean, but let me inform you that your presence here is an intrusion, and the sooner you leave the house the better!”

“I will leave it when I get ready.”

Curtis started to his feet, and advanced to his visitor with an air of menace.

“Go at once,” he exclaimed, angrily, “or I will kick you out of the door!”

“What’s the matter with the window?” returned the stranger, with an insolent leer.

“That’s as you prefer, but if you don’t leave at once I will eject you.”

By way of reply, the rough visitor coolly seated himself in a luxurious easy-chair, and, looking up into the angry face of Waring, said:

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

“And why not, may I ask?” said Curtis, with a feeling of uneasiness for which he could not account.

“Why not? Because, in that case, I should seek an interview with your uncle, and tell him–”

“What?”

“That his son still lives; and that I can restore him to his–”

The face of Curtis Waring blanched; he staggered as if he had been struck; and he cried out, hoarsely:

“It is a lie!”

“It is the truth, begging your pardon. Do you mind my smoking?” and he coolly produced a common clay pipe, filled and lighted it.

“Who are you?” asked Curtis, scanning the man’s features with painful anxiety.

“Have you forgotten Tim Bolton?”

“Are you Tim Bolton?” faltered Curtis.

“Yes; but you don’t seem glad to see me?”

“I thought you were–”

“In Australia. So I was three years since. Then I got homesick, and came back to New York.”

“You have been here three years?”

“Yes,” chuckled Bolton. “You didn’t suspect it, did you?”

“Where?” asked Curtis, in a hollow voice.

“I keep a saloon on the Bowery. There’s my card. Call around when convenient.”

Curtis was about to throw the card into the grate, but on second thought dropped it into his pocket.

“And the boy?” he asked, slowly.

“Is alive and well. He hasn’t been starved. Though I dare say you wouldn’t have grieved if he had.”

“And he is actually in this city?”

“Just so.”

“Does he know anything of—you know what I mean.”

“He doesn’t know that he is the son of a rich man, and heir to the property which you look upon as yours. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

“Yes. What is he doing? Is he at work?”

“He helps me some in the saloon, sells papers in the evenings, and makes himself generally useful.”

“Has he any education?”