“There is no halfway about you, Mr. Curtis Waring.”
“Why should there be? Listen, Bolton; I have set my all on this cast. I am now thirty-six, and still I am dependent upon my uncle’s bounty. I am in debt, and some of my creditors are disposed to trouble me. My uncle is worth—I don’t know how much, but I think half a million. What does he get out of it? Food and clothes, but not happiness. If it were mine, all the avenues of enjoyment would be open to me. That estate I must have.”
“Suppose you get it, what is there for me?” asked Bolton.
“I will see that you are recompensed if you help me to it.”
“Will you put that in writing?”
“Do you take me for a fool? To put it in writing would be to place me in your power! You can trust me.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said Tim Bolton, slowly.
“At any rate you will have to. Well, good-night. I will see you again. In the meantime try to find the boy.”
Tim Bolton followed him with his eyes, as he left the saloon.
“What would he say,” said Bolton to himself, “if he knew that the will he so much wishes to find is in my hands, and that I hold him in my power already?”