The advertisement for Ernest in a St. Louis daily paper came about in this way: Bolton was in the habit of inquiring from time to time, of Western clients, if they were acquainted with any persons bearing the name of Ray. One gentleman, who frequently visited St. Louis, answered, "Yes, I know a boy named Ray." "Tell me all you know about him," said Bolton, eagerly. "I was staying at the Southern Hotel last winter," answered Mr. Windham, "when my attention was called to a bright-looking newsboy who sold the evening newspapers outside. I was so attracted by him that I inquired his name. He said it was Ray, and that he was alone in the world." "What was his first name?" "I can't recall. I am not sure that I heard it." "Was it Ernest?" "Very possibly. But, as I said before, I cannot speak with any certainty." "How old did the boy appear to be?" "About sixteen." "That would have been the age of Dudley Ray's son," said Bolton to himself. "I suppose you didn't learn where the boy lived?" "No." This was all the information Mr. Windham was able to impart, but Bolton felt that it was possibly of importance. It was, in fact, the first clue he had been able to obtain. That Dudley Ray's son should be forced by dire necessity to sell newspapers was not in the least improbable. He went to an advertising agency, and inserted the advertisement already mentioned. A few days later he received two letters post-marked St. Louis. He opened them with a thrill of excitement. He felt that he was on the verge of making an important discovery. One letter was addressed in a school-boy hand, and ran thus: DEAR SIR: I saw your advertisement in one of the morning papers. I hope it means me. My name is not Ernest, but it may have been changed by some people with whom I lived in Nebraska. I am sixteen years old, and am a poor boy obliged to earn my living by selling papers. My father died when I was a baby, and my mother three years later. So I am alone in the world, and I am having a hard time. I suppose you wouldn't advertise for me unless you had some good news for me. You may send your answer to this letter to the Southern Hotel. The clerk is a friend of mine, and he says he will save it for me. Yours respectfully, ARTHUR RAY. "That isn't the boy," said Bolton, laying down the letter in disappointment. "The name is different, and, besides, the writer says that his father died when he was a baby. Of course that settles the question. He is a different boy." He opened the second letter, hoping that it might be more satisfactory. It was the letter of Tom Burns, setting forth his meeting Ernest at Oak Forks, and afterwards running across him at Oreville in California. "Eureka!" exclaimed Bolton, his face beaming with exultation. "This is the boy and no mistake. I will at once answer this letter, and also write to Ernest Ray in California." This was the letter received by Burns: DEAR SIR: