Reginald Mortimer was profoundly astonished. After hesitating a moment, as if undecided how to act, he extended his hand to Julian, and leading him to a seat on the sofa, placed himself beside him.
“My dear boy,” said he, kindly, “what delusion is this you are laboring under? You have made a great mistake. That this house is your own, and that you will some day have a better right here than I or any body else, I admit. And that you were stolen away long years ago by some bad man is equally true; but I knew nothing of it until after it was done, and neither did I know where you were, for all my efforts to find you were unavailing. I never heard of Jack Bowles before. I have not the least idea where he lives, and neither do I know who the man was who wanted to drown you in the river. It certainly was not I.”
“Then it was some one who looks exactly like you,” said Julian.
“There is but one person in the world who resembles me, that I am aware of, and that is my cousin—your Uncle Richard. It could not have been he, for he has tried as hard to find you, and is as much interested in your welfare as I am. Besides, he went to Fort Stoughton two months ago to shoot buffaloes, and has not yet returned. It could not have been Sanders either, for he does not look at all like me. More than that, he is a firm friend of our family, and has worked hard to find you—not with any intention of doing you an injury, but in order to restore you to your home and friends once more. You must be dreaming.”
While Reginald Mortimer was speaking Julian was looking him sharply in the face and thinking busily. He was not deceived by the man’s apparent sincerity. Although greatly mystified he knew that he was not dreaming. His thoughts wandered back to that memorable night on which he had first seen Richard Mortimer at Jack Bowles’ cabin. He remembered how closely he had scrutinized his features in order to impress them upon his memory, and when he compared them with the features of the man who was now seated at his side he told himself that any one not intimately acquainted with the two gentlemen would have declared them to be one and the same person. But something that just then occurred to him satisfied him that they could not be. He thought he must be growing very dull, or else he would have known long ago that the emigrant who had joined the wagon train at St. Joseph, and watched all his movements so closely during the journey across the plains, could be none other than Richard Mortimer. He wondered that he had not thought of it before, and especially that he had not recognized him when Sanders pronounced his name in the reception-room.
Another thing that suddenly became clear to him was that the trapper, Sanders, was the same man who had rescued him from the smoke-house.
Julian saw the reason for his pretended friendship now, and knew why it was that the man had been so anxious to accompany him to the mountains. He wanted to make $5,000 by delivering him into the hands of Reginald Mortimer. But there were still a good many things that he could not understand, and he wondered if they would ever be made plain to him.
“You are greatly in need of rest,” said Mr. Mortimer, laying his hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. “You are completely exhausted. Go to bed now, and I will talk these affairs over with you in the morning. I will then explain everything. If you feel timid in this gloomy old house I will tell Pedro to make you a bed here on the sofa.”
“I would rather be alone, if you please,” replied Julian. “I have been through a good deal to-night, and I want time to think it over. My mind is greatly confused.”
Reginald Mortimer lighted a candle, and after unfastening the ponderous spring-lock which held the door and prevented Julian’s escape from the room, he conducted him along the main hall for a short distance, and turned into another that ran at right angles with it, finally ushering him into his sleeping apartment.