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.”

Mr. Burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following contract:—­

“This agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of June, 1867, between Simon Craft of the city of Philadelphia, party of the first part, and Robert Burnham of the city of Scranton, party of the second part, both of the state of Pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said Craft agrees to produce to the said Burnham, within two days from this date, the son of the said Robert Burnham, named Ralph, in full life, and in good health of body and mind.  And thereupon the said Burnham, provided he recognizes as his said son Ralph the person so produced, agrees to pay to the said Craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand dollars.  Witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid.

“Robert burnham.” [L.S.]

“There!” said Burnham, handing the paper to Craft; “that will secure you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement.  But let me be plain with you.  If you are deceiving me or trying to deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do so, you will surely regret it.  And if that child be really in life, and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, I promise you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me.  Now you understand; go bring the boy.”

The old man did not answer.  He was holding the paper close to his eyes, and going over it word by word.

“Yes,” he said, finally; “I suppose it’s all right.  I’m not very familiar with written contracts, but I’ll venture it.”

Burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down the floor.