“Of course,” he explained, “it is painful to think of the sad fate of a man with whom I was so intimate.”
Darius Darke moved his chair nearer that on which the rich man was seated and asked, abruptly:
“John Simpson, what became of Thatcher’s money?”
“How should I know?” answered the shoe manufacturer nervously. “I suppose the men who stole it have spent it long ago. Why do you come to me with such a question?”
“I supposed you would be as likely to know as any one.”
“Then, sir, you are very much mistaken. I don’t understand what business it is of yours. I should judge that your own affairs required all your attention.”
“So they do,” said Darius Darke, imperturbably. “I am coming to them by and by. But it occurred to me that poor Thatcher’s family needed the money he had when I knew him at Rocky Gulch.”
“How do you know he left a family?”
“I was speaking to his boy this evening. A fine, manly fellow Tom Thatcher is. He’ll make a smart man if he lives.”
“You were speaking to Tom Thatcher this evening?” gasped John Simpson, unpleasantly surprised. “At what time this evening?”