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 s