wait here all day."

"He'll be here soon. These two friends were on their way to the sea
coast, and here's where it will strike you. One of them had been
stolen when he was a child, and was now going back to his parents. But
before they reached the coast, the rich man's son--as we'll call the
one who had been stolen--was stricken with a fever. No ship was in
port, and his friend took him to a hotel and got a doctor for him."

"Wish you'd hand me a match," said Witherspoon. "My cigar's out. Thank
you."

"Got a doctor for him, but he grew worse. Sometimes he was delirious,
but at times his mind was strangely clear; and once, when he was
rational, he told his friend that he was going to die. He didn't
appear to care very much so far as it concerned himself, but the
thought of the grief that his death would cause his parents seemed to
lie as a cold weight upon his mind. And it was then that he made a
most peculiar request. He compelled his friend to promise to take his
name; to go to his home; to be a son to his father and mother. His
friend begged, but had to yield. Well, the rich man's son died, we'll
suppose, and the poor fellow took his name on the spot. He had to
leave hurriedly, for a father and a mother and a sister were waiting
in a distant home. A ship that had just come was ready to sail, and a
month might pass before the landing of another vessel. He went to
these people as their son"--

"Oh, yes," said Witherspoon, "and fell in love with the sister, and
then had to tell his story."

"No, he didn't. He loved the girl, but only as a brother should. He
was not wholly acceptable to his father, but"--

"Ah, that's all very well," said Witherspoon, "but what proof had he?"

DeGolyer met Witherspoon's careless look and held it with a firm gaze.
And slowly raising his hand, he said: "He held up a gold chain."

Witherspoon sprang to his feet and exclaimed: "My God, he's crazy!"

"Wait!"

The merchant had turned toward the door. He halted and looked back.

"George Witherspoon"--

"I thought so--crazy. Merciful God, he's mad!"

"Will you listen to me for a moment--just a moment--and I will prove
to you that I'm not crazy. I am not your son--my name is Henry
DeGolyer. Wait, I tell you!" Witherspoon had staggered against the
door-case. "I am not your son, but your son is not dead. I took his
place; I thought it a promise made to a dying man."

"What!" he whispered. His voice was gone. "You--you"--

DeGoly