“You have broken your promise to me!” said Curtis, sternly.
“There’s worse things than breaking your promise,” retorted Bolton.
Scarcely had he spoken than a change came over his face, and he stared open-mouthed behind him and beyond Curtis.
Startled himself, Curtis turned, and saw, with a feeling akin to dismay, the tall figure of his uncle standing on the threshold of the left portal, clad in a morning gown, with his eyes fixed inquiringly upon Bolton and himself.
Chapter III.
An Unholy Compact.
“Who is that man, Curtis?” asked John Linden, pointing his thin finger at Tim Bolton, who looked strangely out of place, as, with clay pipe, he sat in the luxurious library on a sumptuous chair.
“That man?” stammered Curtis, quite at a loss what to say.
“Yes.”
“He is a poor man out of luck, who has applied to me for assistance,” answered Curtis, recovering his wits.
“That’s it, governor,” said Bolton, thinking it necessary to confirm the statement. “I’ve got five small children at home almost starvin’, your honor.”