Of the many boys with whom Frank associated not one suspected that the attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the desperado whose deeds were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history.
Years have gone, what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a college graduate, and will soon marry a young lady of high position in the city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will make his home on his ancestral estate.
Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital. It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar.
In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence.
“Is this John Franklin?” asked Ernest doubtfully.
“That is the name I go by now,” answered the dying man.
“Do I know you? Have I ever met you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember you.”
“If I tell you my real name, will you keep it secret?”