“Do you know where he has gone?”
“Somewhere into the interior, I believe.”
“Didn’t he leave any message for me?” asked Tom, feeling that his last reliance had failed him.
“What’s your name?”
“Temple.”
“He did leave a little note then. Here it is.”
Tom seized the note with eagerness.
“My young friend,” it commenced, “the physician tells me that the climate of San Francisco at this season is not favorable to my complaints. He orders me into the interior, but the place is not fixed upon. In three months I shall probably return. Meantime, you can learn from my banker, whose address I inclose, where I am, as I shall apprise them when I have myself determined. Meanwhile I hope you may meet with success in all your plans, and beg you to regard me as your friend and well-wisher.
Henry Stoddard.”
This was very friendly certainly, but it might be two or three weeks before Tom could communicate with his new friend, and he was nearly at the end of his purse.