The old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by calling up painful memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he continued:--

"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in the wreck, wasn't he?"

"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at once; if not, I have no time to listen to you further."

"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important object, which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to answer my question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at Cherry Bridge, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?"

"Simply this, that you are mistaken."

"What do you mean?"

"Your boy is not dead."

Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his lips.

"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof of it."

"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw him--yesterday."

"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you."

Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary hopelessness on his face.

"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make you fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of the truth of what I say."

"Very well; produce them."

The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel.

Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained and soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned, the edges of which were still black and crumbling.

"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man.

Burnham seized it with both hands.

"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where did you get it? Where did you get it, I say?"

Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of velvet and lace, and laid it on the table.

This, too, was grasped by Burnham with eager fingers, and looked upon with loving eyes.

"Do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now that I have some knowledge of what I am talking about?"

His listener did not answer the question. His mind seemed to be far away. He said, finally:--

"There--there was a locket, a little gold locket. It had his father's picture in it. Did--did you find that?"

The visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket.

The father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly for a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears.

"It was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell me now--where did you get them?"

"I came by them honestly, Mr. Burnham, honestly; and I have kept them faithfully. But I will tell you the whole story. I think you are ready now to hear it with attention, and to consider it fairly."

The old man pushed his satchel aside, pulled his chair closer to the table, cleared his throat, and began:--

"It was May 13, 1859. I'd been out in the country at my son's, and was riding into the city in the evening. I was in the smoking-car. Along about nine o'clock there was a sudden jerk, then half a dozen more jerks, and the train came to a dead stop. I got up and went out with the rest, and we then saw that the bridge had broken down, and the three cars behind the smoker had tumbled into the creek. I hurried down the bank and did what I could to help those in the wreck, but it was very dark and the cars were piled up in a heap, and it was hard to do anything. Then the fire broke out and we had to stand back. But I heard a child crying by a broken window, just where the middle car had struck across the rear one, and I climbed up there at the risk of my life and looked in. The fire gave some light by this time, and I saw a young woman lying there, caught between the timbers and perfectly still. A sudden blaze showed me that she was dead. Then the child cried again; I saw where he was, and reached in and pulled him out just as the fire caught in his cloak. I jumped down into the water with him, and put out the fire and saved him. He wasn't hurt much. It was your boy Ralph. By this time the wreck was all ablaze and we had to get up on the bank.

"I took the child around among the people there, and tried to find out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him.

He wasn't old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn't tell me much about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph.

I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to discover some clew to his ident.i.ty. But I couldn't find out anything about him; nothing at all. The day after that I was taken sick. The exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. It was several months before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see, from the results of that sickness. After that, as my time and means and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy's friends. It is useless for me to go into the details of that search, but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible during five years, without the slightest success. In the meantime the child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for him the very best I could, considering the circ.u.mstances in which I was placed.

"About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and, by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's name was Ralph. Following up the clew, I became convinced that this boy was your son. I thought the best way to break the news to you was to bring you the child himself. With that end in view, I returned immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph--missing. He had either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which. I was not able to trace him. Three months later I heard that he had been with a travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. After that I lost track of him entirely for about three years. Now, however, I have found him. I saw him so lately as yesterday. He is alive and well."

Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it.

Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was really alive.

"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that I might have a.s.sisted you in the search for him?"

Craft hesitated a moment.

"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day to find him myself."

"Well, let that pa.s.s. Where is he now? Where is the boy who, you say, is my son?"

"Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet. I know where he is. I can bring him to you on two days' notice. But, before I do that, I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation, not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you."

Burnham's brow darkened.

"Ah! I see," he said. "This is to be a money transaction. Your object is to get gain from it. Am I right?"

"Exactly. My motive is not wholly an unselfish one, I a.s.sure you."

"Still, you insist upon the absolute truth of your story?"

"I do, certainly."

"Well, then, what is your proposition? name it."

"Yes, sir. After mature consideration, I have concluded that three thousand dollars is not too large a sum."

"Well, what then?"

"I am to receive that amount when I bring your son to you."

"But suppose I should not recognize nor acknowledge as my son the person whom you will bring?"