A Debt of Honor

“And you know this man!”

“No; I never saw him before in my life.”

“That’s a lie, John Timmins, and you know it,” broke in the burglar audaciously.

“Is your name John Timmins?” asked the policeman with increased suspicion.

“No, sir. My name is Victor Wentworth.”

“Good, John. It does credit to your invention,” said the burglar laughing. “That’s a high-toned name you’ve got now.”

“Is this true that you are saying? Do you know the boy?”

“Of course I do. His father, Dick Timmins, is my pal. I thought we could trust the boy, but he’s betrayed me, the young rascal, expectin’ a reward for his honesty. Oh, he’s a sly one, John is.”

Victor could hardly believe his ears. He understood at once that this man was acting from revengeful motives, but he saw also that the story made an impression on the police.

“You’ll have to go with us,” said one of the officers. “This man has made a charge against you, and you will have to disprove it.”

Victor was compelled to dress hurriedly and accompany the officers to the station-house. He was questioned by the sergeant, who recognized the burglar and suspected his motive.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Victor Wentworth.”

“Do you live in Kansas City?”

“No, sir. I have been stopping here a few days at a boarding-house, but my money gave out and I was obliged to seek a situation.”

“When did you secure it?”

“This afternoon.”

“Just what I told you,” said the burglar. “It was all fixed that John should sleep there and open the window for me.”

“What have you to say to this?”

“That it is a lie. This man wants to punish me for calling in the police.”

“You’re lyin’, John Timmins, and you know it. Your father’ll whack you for this.”

“Bring him here and let him claim me if he dare!” said Victor angrily.

“Who is your father? Is his name Timmins?”

“No, sir. My father is Bradley Wentworth, of Seneca, Illinois.”

“We have an officer here who came from Seneca. He will tell us whether your statement is correct. Ah, here he is! Hilton, come here.”

A stout, pleasant-faced policeman entered the station house.

“Well, sir,” he responded, touching his cap.

“Look at this boy and tell me if you recognize him.”

Hilton approached, and as he scanned Victor’s face, said in surprise, “Why, it’s Squire Wentworth’s son.”

“And he lives in Seneca?”

“Yes; I am surprised to see him here.”

Victor flushed.

“I left school without my father’s knowledge,” he said in embarrassment.

“He is working in a bookstore here in town,” explained the sergeant. “This man who has just been caught in the act of burglary declares the boy to be John Timmins, the son of one of his pals.”

“That isn’t true. I recognize the boy as the son of Mr. Wentworth.”

“That settles the matter. Young man, you are discharged. As for the man who has testified falsely against you, he will find that he has not improved his chances by so doing.”

Victor left the station-house, and returning to the store, resumed his interrupted night’s rest. But the last hour had been so full of excitement that it was at least two hours before he could compose himself to sleep.

“I’ve read about burglars,” thought Victor, as he called to mind sundry dime novels that he had perused in his boarding-school days, “but I never expected to meet one, or to be suspected of being his accomplice.”

Before Mrs. Ferguson reached the store she had already read in great excitement an account of how her place had been entered, and gave Victor high praise for his success in causing the arrest of the burglar.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A STRANGE MEETING

Noel Brooke and Gerald remained at the Lindell Hotel beyond the time originally fixed, as the former found an English friend established in a prosperous business on Olive Street. Gilbert Sandford was a man of forty-five, a pleasant, genial, man, who lived in a fine house in the upper portion of the city. He had a wife and three attractive children.

“Come and take dinner with me next Sunday, Noel,” he said in a hospitable manner.

“I shall be glad to do so if you will let me bring my friend also.”

“By all means! Any friend of yours is welcome. Did he accompany you from England?”

“No. It is a young American – a boy of sixteen – whom I met in Colorado. We have been together three or four months now, and I have become very much attached to him.”

“Bring him along by all means. My children will enjoy his company.”

“By the way, how old is your oldest child?”

“Edward is fourteen, only two years younger than your friend. The other two are girls. What is your friend’s name?”

“Gerald Lane.”