“Didn’t you know where he lived?” asked Tom.
“No; if I had he would have heard from me much sooner. It was only a few weeks ago, in fact, just before my visit to Wilton, that I learned his residence. I was down in the world, penniless, or nearly so, and, though the thought humiliated me, I determined to trade in my secret. The rest you know.”
“Thank you for telling me all this, Mr. Darke,” said Tom, “but I am sorry I have heard it.”
“Why?”
“Because I shall hereafter think of Mr. Simpson as a murderer, without being able to do anything to repair the wrong which he inflicted upon our family. Besides, I shall always be in doubt as to what became of my father.”
“Why don’t you go out to California and see if you can’t find out something about him, and the bag of gold dust which belonged to him?”
Tom looked at Mr. Darke in surprise.
“You don’t seem to understand my position,” he answered. “At present I am earning fifty cents a day. Where am I to get money enough to pay for such an expensive journey?”
“I will give you five hundred dollars toward it; that is, if you will agree to undertake the journey.”
“But I have no claim upon you, Mr. Darke.”