“The Strongs know,” I put in hastily, thus cutting him off.

“What!” He jumped up from his chair.  “Who was fool enough to tell them?”

“Nicholas Weaver left a dying statement—­”

“The idiot!  I always said he was a weak-minded fool!” cried Chris Holtzmann.  “Who has this statement?”

“I don’t know where it is now, but Carson Strong’s son had it.”

“Strong’s son!  Great Scott!  Then Woodward’s goose is cooked.  I always told him he hadn’t covered up his tracks.”

“Yes, but he paid you pretty well for your share of the work,” I returned.  I was getting mixed.  The deception could not be kept up much longer, and I wondered what would happen when the truth became known.

“Didn’t pay me half of what I should have got.  I helped him not only in Brooklyn, but here in Chicago as well.  How would he have accounted for all his money if I hadn’t had a rich aunt die and leave it to him?” Chris Holtzmann gave a short laugh.  “I reckon that was a neat plan of mine.”

“You ran a big risk.”

“So we did—­ but it paid.”

“And John Stumpy helped, too.”

“He did in a way.  But he drank too much to be of any great use.  By the way, do you drink?”

As Holtzmann spoke he opened a closet at one side of the room, behind a screen, and brought forth a bottle of liquor and a pair of glasses.

“No, thank you,” I replied.

“No?  Have a cigar, then.”

“Thank you; I don’t smoke.”

“What!  Don’t smoke or drink!  That’s queer.  Wish I could say the same.  Mighty expensive habits.  What did you say your name was?”

At this instant there was a knock on the door, and Chris Holtzmann walked back of the screen and opened it.

“A man to see you, sir,” I heard a voice say.

“Who is it?” asked Chris Holtzmann.

“Says his name is Aaron Woodward.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

 A deal for A thousand dollars

I was thunderstruck by the announcement that Mr. Aaron Woodward was waiting to come in.  Had it been John Stumpy who was announced, I would not have been so much surprised.  But Aaron Woodward!  The chase after me was indeed getting hot.

Evidently the merchant was not satisfied to leave affairs in Chicago entirely in his confederate’s hands.  Either he did not trust Stumpy or else the matter was of too much importance.

I did not give these thoughts close attention at the time, but revolved them in my mind later.  Just now I was trying to resolve what was best to do.  Would it be advisable for me to remain or had I better get out?

To retire precipitately might not be “good form,” but it might save me a deal of trouble.  I had had one “round” with the merchant in his mansion in Darbyville, and I was not particularly anxious for another encounter.  I was but a boy, and between the two men they might carry “too many guns” for me.