Gasper Farrington lay on a wretched cot in a little bedroom. Ralph was amazed at the change in the magnate since he had last seen him. Farrington was thin, pale and weak. He was gasping painfully for breath, and groaned wretchedly as he recognized his visitor.
“Why, Mr. Farrington,” said Ralph, “you are a very sick man.” 243
“I am dying, Ralph Fairbanks,” moaned the stricken Farrington. “You have your revenge.”
“I wish for no revenge—I truly am sorry to see you in this condition.”
“Well, here I am,” groaned Farrington—“a miserable wreck, dying in a wretched hovel, the end of all my plotting, and worst of all, robbed of everything I own.”
“By whom?” asked Ralph.
“By Bartlett, who has abandoned me. I know it, and only this morning he got from me the deeds conveying all my property to him. Once recorded, I am a beggar, and can make no reparation to those whom I have defrauded.”
“Is that true?” asked Ralph.
“Yes. He pretended he would drive to Wilmer, record the deeds at Stanley Junction, return and take me safely out of the country. Instead, he has isolated me in this desolate place. Oh, to outwit him, Fairbanks!” continued the magnate eagerly. “I can yet defeat him if you can assist me.”
“How?”