"Yes, I have seen my boy pass the hotel twice to-day. I knew him by his likeness to his unfortunate father. But I did not make myself known to him. I do not intend to do so—at least not at present."
"Why not?"
"Why not?" echoed Hartman, sorrowfully. "Ah, would he not shrink from me in disgust and abhorrence?"
"No; not if he were told the awful injustice that has been done you."
"But if he were told, would he believe it? We have no proof that any injustice has been done me, except those anonymous letters and the word of that strange horseman who waylaid me on my tramp and thrust a bag of gold in my hands, with the words, 'You never intended to kill Henry Lytton, and you never killed him. Some one else intended to kill him, and some one else killed him.'"
"Have you ever heard anything more of that mysterious horseman?"
"Not one word."
"Have you no suspicion of his identity?"
"None, beyond the strong conviction that I feel that he himself was the homicide and the writer of the anonymous letters."
"Well, I can not tell you why, but I always felt persuaded of your innocence, even before the coming of those anonymous letters, and even while you were bitterly accusing yourself."