Andy had incautiously left in the drawer a letter received from his mother, addressed to the care of his friend George Tierney, and it was of course postmarked Hamilton.
“Hamilton!” exclaimed White, in astonishment. “Henry receives letters from Hamilton! Why, that is the place where the boy lived who balked me, and had poor Mike Hogan arrested. It’s the same boy, I’ll bet fifty dollars! I saw the resemblance at once.”
White opened the letter and read it through, and when he had finished, the whole secret was revealed to him.
He discovered that Andy was masquerading under an assumed name, that he was one of Simon Dodge’s Eastern relatives, who, doubtless, were in opposition to the interests of his sister and her husband.
“Well, here’s a conspiracy!” ejaculated White. “My sister has been cherishing a viper in her household, who is scheming to get possession of the old man’s property. Was there ever anything more vile and treacherous?”
And the professional burglar became virtuously indignant.
Then an expression of triumph lighted up his face.
“I’ve found you out, my boy, and I’ll put a spoke in your wheel,” he said to himself. “I’ve got a little score of my own to settle with you, my young friend, and don’t you forget it. Henry Miller, alias Andy Gordon, you’ll find that you are no match for George White. Now, how shall I revenge myself on him?”
A bright idea occurred to White.
He went back to his sister’s bedroom, took the savings-bank book, and carrying it up to the little attic chamber, put it in Andy’s drawer, but away back in one corner, where the boy himself would not be likely to see it.