"I reckon he won't," answered Gerald craftily, leaning back in his chair with the letter in his hand. "It's been some sort of a while, Bob, since the first Klondike rush, when old 'Up' Hill disappeared. It isn't likely that Hiram remembers anything about his father's handwriting. Here's what the letter says:
"DEAR SON: Was it really you who jumped aboard my automobile at the corner of Sixth and Main this morning? My conscience has been troubling me ever since. I have hunted up the policeman and secured from him your name and address, but am in a hurry to get back to San Diego, where I live, and cannot remain in Los Angeles to prosecute a personal search for you. If you are really my son, come to San Diego, make my house at eighteen-twenty Q Street your home, and I will ask you certain questions whose answers will prove indisputably whether or not you are my son. I must have the proof, you know, because I am a very rich man, and you, as my sole relative, will inherit everything I leave. Hoping to see you in San Diego at your earliest convenience, I remain, yours expectantly,
'UPTON HILL.'"
Gerald dropped the letter on the table, and looked up at his friends with a guileful smile.
"How's that for a bait?" he asked.
"Bully!" declared Katz. "Hiram Hill will tumble all over himself to go to San Diego."
"What'll happen when he can't find any Upton Hill in San Diego?" said Burton.
"We don't care what happens–then," answered Gerald. "By that time, you know, we ought to have finished our deal with Jack Lopez, and to be away from Catalina, and where Hill will never be able to find us."
"How do you know he gave his name and address to a policeman?" continued Burton.
"That's what people always do when they get into trouble on the street, or meet with an accident, isn't it?"