He left the cabin, and old Anthony and Mark were alone.
"He is my nearest relative," said the old man, "and a relative to be proud of, eh, Mark?"
"No, sir."
"Years since we were in California together, I had two thousand dollars in gold dust under my pillow. My nephew was my companion, but none of the gold belonged to him. I woke one morning to find my nephew gone, and my gold also. From that time I have not set eyes on him till to-day."
"It was a shabby trick," said Mark, warmly. "Were you left destitute?"
"So far as money went, yes. But I was the owner of a claim which my nephew thought exhausted. I resumed work on it, and three days later made a valuable find. Within a month I took out ten thousand dollars, and sold it for five thousand more."
"Your nephew does not know this, does he?"
"No; if he had, I should not have got rid of him so easily. But I have not told you all. I remained in California a year longer, and left it worth forty thousand dollars."
"Then why—excuse me for asking—have you come to this poor cabin to live?" asked Mark.
"I had one other relative than Lyman, a daughter—I left her at a boarding-school in Connecticut. I returned to find that she had married an adventurer a month previous. Two years later I heard of her death. Life had lost its charm for me. I would not deprive myself of it, but in a fit of misanthropy I buried myself here."