“What?”
“That his son still lives; and that I can restore him to his——”
The face of Curtis Waring blanched; he staggered as if he had been struck; and he cried out, hoarsely:
“It is a lie!”
“It is the truth, begging your pardon. Do you mind my smoking?” and he coolly produced a common clay pipe, filled and lighted it.
“Who are you?” asked Curtis, scanning the man’s features with painful anxiety.
“Have you forgotten Tim Bolton?”
“Are you Tim Bolton?” faltered Curtis.
“Yes; but you don’t seem glad to see me?”
“I thought you were——”