“My name is Hector Roscoe.”
“Did I know you in New York?”
“No; I never met you, to my knowledge.”
“Then how do you recognize me and know my name?”
In answer, Hector took from his pocket a photograph of Gregory and displayed it.
“How did you come by that?” asked Gregory, hurriedly. “Are you a detective?”
Gregory looked so startled that Hector had hard work not to laugh. It seemed ludicrous to him that he should be supposed to be a detective on Gregory’s track, as the boy evidently suspected.
“No,” he answered, “I am not a detective, but a friend. I have come out to San Francisco especially to find you.”
“You won’t inform against me?” asked Gregory, nervously.
“Not at all. I come as a friend, with a message from your uncle—”