“Good!” said Houston, “and now there is one thing more before we get to the house. You remember Morton Rutherford?”
“Mort Rutherford, of old college days? well, I should say so; what about him?”
“His brother is stopping here, you will see him at dinner.”
“What!” interrupted Van Dorn, “little Ned? What under heaven is he doing out here? Are you two fellows out here incognito making love to rustic maidens? or what are you doing?”
“No, Ned is out here in his own name, you won’t need be under any restrictions with him, but what I want to say is this: Don’t let him know who I am, or that you used to know me, or that I know his brother.”
“Anything else I’m not to let him know?” queried Van Dorn, taking out a small note book.
“No, put up your book, or Mr. Blaisdell will think I am giving you pointers on the mine. But this is how it is; Rutherford met me on the train coming out here, introduced himself to me, took a fancy to the mountains, and decided to stay a few weeks. He thinks I am––what you found me––the clerk for this company, and my home in Chicago. I am not ready to explain matters to him yet, so just simply appear as if you had never met me or heard of me till to-day.”
“But how is it Ned didn’t know you? Didn’t you ever see him when you visited Mort?”
“No, I was there only once, and he was away at school at the time, and then he never went to Yale, you know, he is a Harvard graduate.”
“Oh, I see; all right, I’ll be mum.”