John Simpson’s ruddy face paled, and he made a visible start, but he recovered himself by an effort.
“That was foolish,” he said. “All the gold dust has been gathered long ago, and there could be no advantage in going there.”
“I wanted to find out something, if I could, about my poor father’s disappearance,” said Tom, gravely.
“Then you wasted your time,” said Simpson, nervously.
“No; I learned something.”
“What was it?” asked the rich man, in a voice slightly tremulous.
“I learned that while my father was asleep, one whom he supposed to be a friend stole upon him, attacked him, and left him for dead, carrying away a large sum belonging to my poor father.”
“That is a lie!” said Simpson, his face livid with dismay, rising from his chair.
The door opened and Tom’s father entered the room.
“It is true, John Simpson,” he said, sternly, “and you are the guilty man who stole in upon my unprotected slumbers, and sought to kill me.”