t. "I don't want
to live here."

"I know a gentleman who would like to hire it for a term of years,"
responded Bolton. "He will pay a rental of five thousand dollars a year.
The bonds which you inherit will yield an income equally large."

"So that my income will be ten thousand dollars a year?" said Ernest,
dazzled.

"Yes."

"What shall I do with it all?"

Bolton smiled.

"You are but seventeen," he said. "A few years hence you will probably
marry. Then you can occupy the house yourself. Meanwhile----"

"I will go back to California. Luke will expect me. While I am away I
appoint you my man of business. I wish you to have charge of my property
at a proper commission."

"I will undertake the charge with pleasure."

Bolton knew how much this would increase his importance in the eyes of the
firm by which he was employed. Ernest could not have made a better choice.
Bolton was no longer intemperate. He was shrewd and keen, and loyal to his
young employer.

Ernest returned to California, but he had lost his old zest for business,
now that his fortune was secure. He soon came East again, and entered upon
a plan of study, ending with a college course. He brought with him Frank
Fox, the son of the dead outlaw, who regarded him with devoted affection.
They lived together, and he placed Frank at a well-known school, justly
noted for the success of its pupils.

Of the many boys with whom Frank associated not one suspected that the
attractive lad, who was a favorite with all, was a son of the desperado
whose deeds were a matter of common knowledge in the West. Ernest had
cautioned the boy to say as little as possible of his past history.

Years have gone, what Bolton predicted has come to pass. Ernest is a
college graduate, and will soon marry a young lady of high position in the
city of New York. He will go abroad for a year, and on his return will
make his home on his ancestral estate.

Last week he received a letter from a patient in a New York City hospital.
It was signed John Franklin, a name with which he was not familiar.

In some wonder he answered the call, and was led to a bed on which lay a
gaunt, spectral man, evidently in the last stage of existence.

"Is this John Franklin?" asked Ernest doubtfully.

"That is the name I go by now," answered the dying man.

"Do I know you? Have I ever met you?"

"Yes."

"I don't remember you."

"If I tell you my real name, will you keep it secret?"

"Yes."