“Who would have dreamed,” he said to himself, “that the bold burglar whom I encountered last night, was the son of old Jerry? One is as timid as a mouse, the other seems like a daring criminal. I wonder why Jerry never told me that he had a son.”
The discovery that Jerry had such a son made Paul still more unwilling to own a relationship to him. It was bad enough to pass for the grandson of a squalid miser, but it was worse to be thought the son or nephew of a burglar.
The day passed quietly. Paul was not sent out much, on the supposition that he might have to pass another night at the house of Mr. Cunningham.
About seven o’clock he rang the bell of the house in Fifty First Street.
The same servant admitted him. This time she received him with a smile, knowing that he stood high with her mistress.
“Come right in,” she said. “The mistress will see you in the sitting room.”
“Have you had any more visits from burglars?” asked Paul.
“No; may be they’re waiting till night.”
“Has Mr. Cunningham got back?”
“No, but he’s expected at eight.”