“I once knew a man of that name,” said Morton hesitatingly. “From what State do you come?”
“Our family originated in Massachusetts,” answered Tom, not appearing to notice anything in the other’s manner. “I believe the name is a common one.”
“Very likely,” said Morton, recovering himself, convinced that it was only an accidental coincidence. He was naturally suspicious, not knowing what steps might have been taken to secure him. It seemed improbable, however, that a mere boy like Tom should know anything of his crime or have any connection with the efforts to capture him. It may be added that his secret was known to no one in California except our hero. Gates was an acquaintance he had picked up and made a companion from his need of society, but this chosen comrade knew nothing of him save what he had chosen to tell, and sincerely believed that Morton was his real name.
They did not occupy the same room at the hotel. Gates had proposed it, but Morton had not encouraged the idea. He said that he was a light sleeper and always accustomed to room alone, and Gates acquiesced.
When Morton was alone in his chamber, after disrobing himself, he unclasped from around his waist a belt which had been made expressly for his use. Opening it, he drew forth a quantity of papers and carefully examined them. It is not my intention to mystify the reader. These were the papers which had been taken from his employer, and for the lack of which that employer had been compelled to fail. They represented an aggregate value of eighty thousand dollars.
Morton looked them over carefully, as I have said.
“Yes, they are all here,” he said thoughtfully. “I wish I could turn them into cash; at present they do me no good. I wish I could with safety dispose of them, but no doubt an accurate list has been furnished to the detectives. Meanwhile they are a great care to me. I am compelled to carry them round with me all the time. I don’t dare to leave them on deposit at any bank lest they should be identified as stolen property.”
Here there was a knock at the door. Morton turned pale, and huddled the papers into the bed near by. Then with a perturbed look he opened the door to Gates.
“What’s the matter, Morton?” he said. “You look startled. Did you think I was a burglar?”
Morton responded with a forced laugh.