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A Millionaire of Rough-and-Ready by Bret Harte
page 88 of 106 (83%)
fallen when I heard the news--I don't remember--I recall nothing
until I was confronted, nearly three weeks after, by my son, who
had called at the hospital, as a reporter for a paper, and had
accidentally discovered me through my name and appearance. He
thought me crazy, or a fool. I didn't undeceive him. I did not
tell him the story of the mine to excite his doubts and derision,
or, worse (if I could bring proof to claim it), have it perhaps
pass into his ungrateful hands. No; I said nothing. I let him
bring me here. He could do no less, and common decency obliged him
to do that."

"And what proof could you show of your claim?" asked Mulrady,
gravely.

"If I had that letter--if I could find Masters," began Slinn,
vaguely.

"Have you any idea where the letter is, or what has become of
Masters?" continued Mulrady, with a matter-of-fact gravity, that
seemed to increase Slinn's vagueness and excite his irritability.

"I don't know--I sometimes think--" He stopped, sat down again,
and passed his hands across his forehead. "I have seen the letter
somewhere since. Yes," he went on, with sudden vehemence, "I know
it, I have seen it! I--" His brows knitted, his features began to
work convulsively; he suddenly brought his paralyzed hand down,
partly opened, upon the table. "I WILL remember where."

"Go slow, old man; go slow."

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