“Give my regards to your father and mother, who have always been kind to me.  I shall come and see you the first thing after I return.  If you only knew how hard I find it to refrain from telling you all, where I am and what adventures I have met with, how I came near being robbed twice, and many other things, you would appreciate my self-denial.  But you shall know all very soon.  I have had a good time—­the best time in my life.  Let mother read this letter, and believe me, dear Lin,

“Your affectionate friend,

“Luke Larkin.”

Linton’s curiosity was naturally excited by the references in Luke’s letter.

“Where can Luke be?” he asked.  “I wish he were at liberty to tell.”

Linton never dreamed, however, that his friend was two thousand miles away, in the wild West.  It would have seemed to him utterly improbable.

He was folding up the letter as he was walking homeward, when he met Randolph Duncan.

“What’s that, Linton?” he asked.  “A love-letter?”

“Not much; I haven’t got so far along.  It is a letter from Luke Larkin.”

“Oh!” sneered Randolph.  “I congratulate you on your correspondent.  Is he in New York?”

“The letter is postmarked in New York, but he is traveling.”

“Traveling?  Where is he traveling?”

“He doesn’t say.  This letter is forwarded by Mr. Reed.”

“The man who robbed the bank?”

“What makes you say that?  What proof have you that he robbed the bank?”

“I can’t prove it, but my father thinks he is the robber.  There was something very suspicious about that tin box which he handed to Luke.”

“It was opened in court, and proved to contain private papers.”

“Oh, that’s easily seen through.  He took out the bonds, and put in the papers.  I suppose he has experience in that sort of thing.”

“Does your father think that?”

“Yes, he does.  What does Luke say?”

“Wait a minute, and I will read you a paragraph,” said Linton, with a mischievous smile.  Thereupon he read the paragraph in which Randolph was mentioned.

“What does he mean by calling me his dear friend?” exclaimed Randolph indignantly.  “I never was his dear friend, and never want to be.”

“I believe you, Randolph.  Shall I tell you what he means?”

“Yes.”

“He means it for a joke.  He knows you don’t like him, and he isn’t breaking his heart over it.”

“It’s pretty cheeky in him!  Just tell him when you write that he needn’t call me his dear friend again.”

“You might hurt his feelings,” said Linton, gravely.

“That for his feelings!” said Randolph, with a snap of his fingers.  “You say he’s traveling.  Shall I tell you what I think he is doing?”

“If you like.”

“I think he is traveling with a blacking-box in his hand.  It’s just the business for him.”