“I think he once told me so.”
“Perhaps he is some relative of Mr. Wentworth, and that may account for the checks.”
“I can’t say as to that.”
“Then no checks come now?”
“No, not for a long time. Since these supplies were cut off Hastings has been going downhill.”
Gerald bent his eyes upon the floor in silent thought. What, he asked himself, could be the connection between this human wreck, living in a small Minnesota town, and Bradley Wentworth, the wealthy manufacturer? With his eyes fixed upon the floor his attention was drawn to a torn letter which he now remembered that Hastings had held in his hand and clutched convulsively as he stood at the desk.
Mechanically he picked it up, when the name signed to it attracted his attention and filled him with a thrill of excitement.
This name was Bradley Wentworth. “I don’t know as I am justified,” thought Gerald, “but my father’s connection with Mr. Wentworth makes me desirous of learning whatever I can about him.”
He withdrew to a corner of the office where stood a table covered with newspapers and writing materials, and taking out the torn letter pieced it together so that he could read it consecutively.
It ran thus: