I knew that Oakland lay
across the bay and that Brooklyn lay close by, a part of Oakland. I
remembered a dinner at Sacramento, and knew Los Angeles on the map.
Further than this my ideas were of the most hazy character, and
Livermore was nowhere to be found in my geographical memory.
I had some thought of questioning Wainwright, who was busy trying to
make friends with the child, but reflecting that I might be supposed to
know all about it I was silent. Wainwright's efforts to get the child
to speak were without success. The little thing might from its size
have been five years old, but it was dumb--frightened, as I supposed,
by the strangeness of the situation, and would speak no word.
This, then, was the mysterious boy whose fate was linked so closely
with my own; about whose body battled the hirelings of Doddridge Knapp
and of my unknown employer; for whom murder had been done, and for whom
perhaps many now living were to give up their lives.
Who was he? Whence had he come? What interests were bound up in his
life? Why was his body the focus of plot and counterplot, and its
possession disputed with a fierce earnestness that stopped at no crime?
Perhaps, could he be got to talk, the key of the mystery might be put
in my hands. Out of the mouth of the babe I might learn the secret that
had racked my brain for days and weeks.
And why was he put thus in my charge? What was I to do with him?
Whither was I to carry him? I reproached myself that I had not stopped
the Unknown to ask more questions, to get more light on the duties that
were expected of me.
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