Curtis Waring had entrapped Dodger for a double purpose.
It was not merely that he thought it possible the boy had the will, or knew where it was. He had begun to think of the boy’s presence in New York as dangerous to his plans.
John Linden might at any time learn that the son, for whose appearance he had grieved so bitterly, was still living in the person of this street boy. Then there would be an end of his hopes of inheriting the estate.
Only a few months more and the danger would be over, for he felt convinced that his uncle’s tenure of life would be brief. The one essential thing, then, seemed to be to get Dodger out of the city.
The first step had already been taken; what the next was will soon appear.
Scarcely had Dodger failed in his attempt to obtain outside assistance when an unaccountable drowsiness overcame him, considerably to his surprise.
“I don’t know what’s come to me,” he said to himself. “It can’t be more than seven or eight o’clock, and yet I feel so sleepy I can hardly keep my eyes open. I haven’t worked any harder than usual to-day, and I can’t understand it.”
Dodger had reason to be surprised, for he didn’t usually retire till eleven o’clock.
In a city like New York, where many of the streets are tolerably well filled even at midnight, people get in the way of sitting up much later than in the country, and Dodger was no exception to this rule.
Yet here he was ready to drop off to sleep before eight o’clock. To him it was a mystery, for he did not know that the cup of tea which he had drunk at supper had been drugged by direction of Curtis Waring, with an ulterior purpose, which will soon appear.