“I believe a personal of some kind was to be inserted in certain papers in the leading cities of the country by those who had charge of the affair,” replied the farmer, “but I guess it has never been printed. Their house has never been occupied since. A good many people believe that Henly murdered the boy also, and concealed the body somewhere on the farm, so the place has had the reputation of being haunted, therefore we have never had any neighbors there.” “Since Mrs. Henly was not murdered, I am at liberty to set your heart at rest upon that subject,” Geoffrey responded. “The boy is alive and well. I am that boy!” The farmer started from his chair and stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment at this electrifying statement. “I can’t believe it,” he said, at last, and bending to look more closely into his visitor’s face, “and yet you said your name was Huntress.” “Yes, my name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress,” Geoffrey replied, with a smile at his host’s astonishment. “That was the child’s name, Geoffrey Dale—it must be true; do tell me how you happen to come back here after all these years?” the farmer urged, in an eager tone. Geoffrey felt that he was warranted in so doing, since Margery Henly had lived, and there was no longer any need of concealment on Jack’s part. “Jack escaped all pursuit,” he said, “wandering from place to place; went to Texas on a sheep ranch for a few years, and finally turned up in New York, where I became separated from him, and could not be found. Just about this time he became convinced that the officers were on his track—they must have been those who were working for Mrs. Henly’s thousand-dollar reward—and he was so frightened he suddenly shipped for Australia.” “Poor fellow,” said the farmer, sympathetically, “he must have suffered keenly. But this is the strangest part of the whole story. I never imagined that we should get the sequel to that tragedy over yonder. Was the man kind to you? I used to think he was not over fond of you when you were a little fellow.” “No one could have been more kind than he was, as long as I was with him,” Geoffrey said, gravely, as he recalled all that Jack had so recently told him. He thought, too, as long as Margery had kept the secret of his having been nearly murdered also, it would be best to still preserve silence upon that point. “It was my own fault,” he continued, “that I was lost, for I wandered away without his knowledge, and he was not able to find me, although he labored faithfully to do so, until driven to desperation by the belief that he was being tracked.” “How did you learn that he had sailed for Australia, if you were lost before he went?” “I learned that later,” Geoffrey briefly replied. “And what became of you?” “A philanthropic gentleman became interested in me, adopted me, and has given me a good education.”