His heart gave a sudden bound.
It was signed by the man who, he supposed, had perished in the flames at the recent fire—Darius Darke!
Over the top was written:
“Strictly confidential.”
“This will seem to you like a voice from the grave. Doubtless you supposed that I was consumed in the burning barn. I wish all except yourself to believe this. When, therefore, you have read this letter, burn or otherwise destroy it, so that there may be no chance of my secret being discovered. I wish to see you as soon as possible, for reasons which I will explain when we meet. Come to New York on Monday, and meet me at twelve o’clock noon, or if you cannot reach the city so early, at three o’clock, in front of the Astor House. I inclose money to defray your expenses.
“Darius Darke.”
This letter occupied one page of commercial note-paper. Between the two leaves was tucked a ten-dollar bill.
“Who was your letter from?” asked the clerk.
“An acquaintance of mine,” answered Tom, briefly, as he thrust the bank-note hurriedly into his vest-pocket.