se, and no
one recognized me. I waited for an opportunity. It came, and I stole
my brother's boy. I went to Boston, to Europe, back to America; lived
here and there, and you know the rest. My dear boy, I repented
somewhat, and it was my intention, at some time, to restore you to
your parents, but you yourself were their enemy; you crept into my
heart and I could not pluck you out. For a time the story of your
mysterious disappearance filled the newspapers. You were found in a
hundred towns, year after year, and when your sensation had run its
course, you became the joke of the paragraphers. It was no longer,
'Who struck Billy Patterson?" but 'Who stole Henry Witherspoon?' Once
I saw your father in New Orleans. He had come to identify his boy; but
he went away with another consignment added to his large stock of
disappointment. Finally all hope was apparently abandoned and even the
newspapers ceased to find you.

"Your father and mother now live in Chicago. George Witherspoon is one
of the great merchants of that city, and is more than a millionaire.
This is why I have so often told you that one day you would be worth
money. You were young and could afford to wait; I was old, and to me
the present was everything, and you were the present.

"For some time I have been threatened with sudden death; I have felt
it at night when you were asleep; and now I have written a confession
which for years I irresolutely put aside from day to day. I charge you
to bury me as Andrew Witherspoon, for in the grave I hope to be
myself, with nothing to hide. Write at once to your father, and after
settling up my affairs, which I urge you not to neglect, you can go to
him. In the commercial world a high place awaits you, and though I
have done you a great wrong, I hope that your recollection of my deep
love for you may soften your resentment and attune your young heart to
the sweet melody of forgiveness.

"ANDREW WITHERSPOON."

DeGolyer folded the paper, returned it to Henry and sat in silence.
He looked at the smoking lamp and listened to the barking of the
hungry dogs.

"What do you think, Hank?"

"I don't know what to think."

"But ain't it the strangest thing you ever heard of?"

"Yes, it is strange, and yet not so strange to me. It is simply the
sequel to a well-known story. In the streets of New Orleans, years
ago, when I could scarcely carry a bundle of newspapers, I cried your
name. The story was getting old then, for I rem