At present I want to have my head clear, and yours too,--if
you'll oblige me by becoming sufficiently interested in your own affairs
to talk to me about them."
Thatcher was gazing abstractedly at the fire. He started. "I dare say,"
he began, "I'm not very interesting; yet it's possible that my affairs
have taken up a little too much of my time. However,--" he stopped, took
from his pocket an envelope, and threw it on the desk,--"there are
some papers. I don't know what value they may be; that is for you
to determine. I don't know that I've any legal right to their
possession,--that is for you to say, too. They came to me in a queer
way. On the overland journey here I lost my bag, containing my few traps
and some letters and papers 'of no value,' as the advertisements say,
'to any but the owner.' Well, the bag was lost, but the stage driver
declares that it was stolen by a fellow-passenger,--a man by the name of
Giles, or Stiles, or Piles--"
"Wiles," said Harlowe earnestly.
"Yes," continued Thatcher, suppressing a yawn; "yes, I guess you're
right,--Wiles.
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