style="font-size:15px;"> “Hush! Walls have ears. Let us return to business.”
“That suits me.”
“Look here, Tim Bolton,” said Curtis, drawing up a chair, and lowering his voice to a confidential pitch, “you say you want money?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, I don’t give money for nothing.”
“I know that. What’s wanted now?”
“You say the boy is alive?”
“He’s very much alive.”
“Is there any necessity for his living?” asked Curtis, in a sharp, hissing tone, fixing his eyes searchingly on Bolton, to see how his hint would be taken.
“You mean that you want me to murder him?” said Bolton, quickly.
“Why not? You don’t look over scrupulous.”
“I am a bad man, I admit it,” said Bolton, with a gesture of repugnance, “a thief, a low blackguard, perhaps, but, thank Heaven! I am no murderer! And if I was, I wouldn’t spill a drop of that boy’s blood for the fortune that is his by right.”
“I didn’t give you credit for so much sentiment, Bolton,” said Curtis, with a sneer. “You don’t look like it, but appearances are deceitful. We’ll drop the subject. You can serve me in another way. Can you open this secretary?”
“Yes; that’s in my line.”
“There is a paper in it that I want. It is my uncle’s will. I have a curiosity to read it.”
“I understand. Well, I’m agreeable.”
“If you find any money or valuables, you are welcome to them. I only want the paper. When will you make the attempt?”
“To-morrow night. When will it be safe?”
“At eleven o’clock. We all retire early in this house. Can you force an entrance?”
“Yes; but it will be better for you to leave the outer door unlocked.”
“I have a better plan. Here is my latchkey.”
“Good! I may not do the job myself, but I will see that it is done. How shall I know the will?”
“It is in a big envelope, tied with a narrow tape. Probably it is inscribed: ‘My will.’ ”
“Suppose I succeed, when shall I see you?”
“I will come around to your place on the Bowery. Good-night!”
Curtis Waring saw Bolton to the door, and let him out. Returning, he flung himself on a sofa.
“I can make that man useful!” he reflected. “There is an element of danger in the boy’s presence in New York; but it will go hard if I can’t get rid of him! Tim Bolton is unexpectedly squeamish, but there are others to whom I can apply. With gold everything is possible. It’s time matters came to a finish. My uncle’s health is rapidly failing—the doctor hints that he has heart disease—and the fortune for which I have been waiting so long will soon be mine, if I work my cards right. I can’t afford to make any mistakes now.”
CHAPTER IV.
FLORENCE
Florence Linden sat in the library the following evening in an attitude of depression. Her eyelids were swollen, and it was evident she had been weeping. During the day she had had an interview with her uncle, in which he harshly insisted upon her yielding to his wishes, and marrying her cousin, Curtis.
“But, uncle,” she objected, “I do not love him.”
“Marry him, and love will come.”
“Never!” she said, vehemently.
“You speak confidently, miss,” said Mr. Linden, with irritation.
“Listen, Uncle John. It is not alone that I do not love him. I dislike him—I loathe—him.”
“Nonsense! that is a young girl’s extravagant nonsense.”
“No, uncle.”
“There can be no reason for such a foolish dislike. What can you have against him?”
“It is impressed upon me, uncle, that Curtis is a bad man. There is something false—treacherous—about him.”
“Pooh! child! you are more foolish than I thought. I don’t say Curtis is an angel. No man is; at least, I never met any such. But he is no worse than the generality of men. In marrying him you will carry out my cherished wish. Florence, I have not long to live. I shall be glad to see you well established in life before I leave you. As the wife of Curtis you will have a recognized position. You will go on living in this house, and the old home will be maintained.”
“But why is it necessary for me to marry at all, Uncle John?”
“You will be sure to marry some one. Should I divide my fortune between you and Curtis, you would become the prey of some unscrupulous fortune hunter.”
“Better that than become the wife of Curtis Waring–”
“I see, you are incorrigible,” said her uncle, angrily. “Do you refuse obedience to my wishes?”
“Command me in anything else, Uncle John, and I will obey,” pleaded Florence.
“Indeed! You only thwart me in my cherished wish, but are willing to obey me in unimportant matters. You forget the debt you owe me.”
“I forget nothing, dear uncle. I do not forget that, when I was a poor little child, helpless and destitute, you took me in your arms, gave me a home, and have cared for me from that time to this as only a parent could.”
“You remember that, then?”
“Yes, uncle. I hope you will not consider me wholly ungrateful.”
“It only makes matters worse. You own your obligations, yet refuse to make the only return I desire. You refuse to comfort me in the closing days of my life by marrying your cousin.”
“Because that so nearly concerns my happiness that no one has a right to ask me to sacrifice all I hold dear.”
“I see you are incorrigible,” said John Linden, stormily. “Do you know what will be the consequences?”
“I am prepared for all.”
“Then listen! If you persist in balking me, I shall leave the entire estate to Curtis.”
“Do with your money as you will, uncle. I have no claim to more than I have received.”
“You are right there; but that is not all.”
Florence fixed upon him a mute look of inquiry.
“I will give you twenty-four hours more to come to your senses. Then,
