"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 assisted 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 pass. 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 assure 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?" "Then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me." Burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "Listen!" he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you will bring my boy to me, alive, unharmed, my own boy Ralph, I will give you twice three thousand dollars." "In cash?" "In cash." "It's a bargain. You shall see him within two days. But--you may change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure me?" "Certainly."