Two weeks later Gerald found himself in the town of Brentwood, Minnesota. It was too small for him to expect to do much business there, but he had a special message to bear to a sister of Mr. Sandford, who had her home in the place. He put up at the Commercial Hotel, a small inn capable of accommodating about thirty travelers.

Brentwood did not seem an attractive place to Gerald, and he felt that he should be glad to take the morning train to St. Paul. Yet he was destined to meet here a man who could aid him materially in the object to which he had consecrated his energies—that of clearing his father’s reputation and punishing his enemy.

He was sitting in the office of the hotel when a man apparently fifty years of age entered and had a whispered conference with the clerk. He appeared to prefer some request which the latter denied. The man was thin and haggard, and his face bore a look of settled despondency. His clothing was shabby, yet he looked as if he had seen better days and had at some time occupied a better position. Without knowing why, Gerald’s curiosity and interest were excited. As he left the room Gerald said: “That fellow looks as if the world had gone wrong with him.”

“Yes,” answered the clerk, “he has been going down hill the last three years, and now is near the foot.”

“Does he drink?”

“Yes, when he gets the chance, but he has not had money enough to gratify his appetite lately. I don’t pity him so much as I do his wife and child, for he has a daughter of twelve, a sweet, innocent child, whose lot in such a home as he can supply is far from being a happy one.”

“How long has he lived in Brentwood?”

“Five years. When he first came here he kept a small store, and seemed to do tolerably well. He appeared to receive some help from outside, for he sometimes brought checks to the hotel to be cashed. They all came from the same party, a certain Bradley Wentworth.”

“What!” exclaimed Gerald in startled surprise.

“Do you know the name?” asked the clerk.

“I know a man of that name. It may not be the same one.”

“This man, so Hastings told me once, was a manufacturer, and lived in—in—”

“Seneca, Illinois?”

“The very place. Then it is the man you know?”

“It seems so. What is this man’s name?”

“Thomas Hastings.”

“Did he ever live in Seneca?”

“I think he once told me so.”

“Perhaps he is some relative of Mr. Wentworth, and that may account for the checks.”

“I can’t say as to that.”

“Then no checks come now?”

“No, not for a long time. Since these supplies were cut off Hastings has been going downhill.”

Gerald bent his eyes upon the floor in silent thought. What, he asked himself, could be the connection between this human wreck, living in a small Minnesota town, and Bradley Wentworth, the wealthy manufacturer? With his eyes fixed upon the floor his attention was drawn to a torn letter which he now remembered that Hastings had held in his hand and clutched convulsively as he stood at the desk.

Mechanically he picked it up, when the name signed to it attracted his attention and filled him with a thrill of excitement.

This name was Bradley Wentworth. “I don’t know as I am justified,” thought Gerald, “but my father’s connection with Mr. Wentworth makes me desirous of learning whatever I can about him.”

He withdrew to a corner of the office where stood a table covered with newspapers and writing materials, and taking out the torn letter pieced it together so that he could read it consecutively.

It ran thus:

Gerald read this letter in ill-suppressed excitement. He could not misunderstand these words, referring to the secret of which this man had knowledge. “The man to whom you want to reveal it is dead, and his son is dead also.” He, the son, was not dead, but it suited Bradley Wentworth to represent that he was. What could this secret be? It must, he felt, relate to the “debt of honor,” and to the forgery which Wentworth had succeeded in laying upon the shoulders of his friend and associate.

Hastings must possess some information of great value, or Bradley Wentworth would not have sent the sums of money referred to in the letter. Clearly it was for Gerald’s interest to see Thomas Hastings, and learn what he could. He was quite in the dark as to the nature of his information, but it was unquestionably of importance. It seemed as if Providence had directed his steps to this out-of-the-way town in Minnesota, and he resolved to take advantage of his visit.

He sauntered up to the desk and in a voice of affected unconcern inquired, “Can you tell me where the man Hastings lives?”

“Are you interested in him?” asked the clerk, smilingly.

“Yes, somewhat. He looked so sad and woebegone. I might perhaps help him to a position if I could have a conversation with him and judge of his abilities.”

“Oh, his abilities are good, but his intemperate habits are so fixed that I would not advise you to recommend him.”

“At any rate I can give him a dollar, and I suppose that will be acceptable to him.”

“It will be a godsend. You will find that he won’t refuse it. As to where he lives I can’t readily direct you, but here is a little fellow,” pointing to a colored boy who had just entered, “who will be glad to show you. Here, Johnny, do you want to earn a dime?”

“Don’t I just?” returned the boy, showing the whites of his eyes.

“Then show this young man the way to Tom Hastings’s house.”

“All right, boss, I’ll show him.”

Gerald followed the boy along the street for about twenty rods; then down a side street, till he reached a shabby, two-story house, dismantled and with the paint worn off in spots.

“That’s where he lives, boss,” said the boy.

“Does he occupy the whole house?”

“No, he occupies the right side.”

Gerald hesitated a moment at the gate and then walked in. He was considering how he should introduce himself.

Thomas Hastings himself answered the knock on the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves. There was a beard of nearly a week’s growth on his cheeks, and he looked as neglected as the tenement which he occupied. He eyed Gerald in some surprise, and waited for him to mention his business.

“Are you Mr. Thomas Hastings?” asked the young visitor.

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with Bradley Wentworth of Seneca, Illinois?”

“Yes, do you come from him?” asked Hastings, eagerly.

“No, but I would like to talk with you about him. May I come in?”

Hastings looked backward, and the disordered rooms struck him with a sudden sense of shame.

“No,” he said, “we can talk better outside. Wait a minute and I’ll be with you.”