"No, sir."
After a pause Mr. Nugent resumed:
"Two days ago I received a letter from Montana, from a man I supposed to be dead.
"The contents took me very much by surprise. I will read you the letter, and this will prepare the way for the proposal I will make you."
The old gentleman drew from his desk a letter written on coarse paper, and addressed in a hand made tremulous by age or infirmity.
It was post-marked at Campville, Montana.
The letter was passed to Gerald, who read as follows:
"Mr. John Nugent—If you turn to the signature of this letter you will recognize the name of a man who once did you a great wrong. Twenty years ago I was in the employ of the firm of which you were a senior member. I had access to the safe, and one day I appropriated twenty thousand dollars in negotiable securities and fled. You notified the police but I succeeded in getting away with my ill-gotten gains. I visited different parts of the great West, but finally settled down in an out-of-the-way place in Montana. I have been here ever since. Part of the money I deposited in a Chicago bank, part I brought with me. At that time, as now, mining was the chief business in Montana. I engaged in it with varying success.Upon the whole I have greatly prospered. Probably I have in my possession at least twenty-five thousand dollars.
"But I have not been happy. I have lived the life of a recluse, cut off by my own act from friends and society, and my wealth has done me no good. My business has occupied my mind, and afforded me in that way my only relief from remorse. Latterly my health has been poor, and I have felt myself breaking down. I am probably about your own age, but I feel sure that I shall not live long. I have some distant relatives at the East, but I feel that what property I have should be left, in the way of atonement, to the man I have wronged.
"I am not able to go East. Would it be possible for you to come here and receive the money and property I possess, merely leaving me enough to see me through the short time I have yet to live? If not—if you, too, are unable to travel—will you send me some trusted friend who will act in your behalf? If possible, send me some one who will remain with me to the end. There are rough people hereabouts who might rob me. Fortunately, partly from my poor way of living, I am not supposed to have much money. Probably no one supposes me to be worth over three to four thousand dollars. I dread the time when I shall be quite helpless, as then I should be at the mercy of designing and unscrupulous parties.