“He is cunning and covers his tracks,” said the wretched parent.  “I know him well.”

Marcus then exhibited the letters.  Mr. Van Quintem compared them carefully, but could not detect the least trace of resemblance.  But, on examining the envelopes, at the suggestion of Fayette Overtop, he at once recognized the Hogarthian curve as a mark which he had always observed on his son’s letters.

“I could almost swear to this mark; and yet it is possible that he did not write the letters.  Bad as he is, I will wait for further proofs.  Please tell me all else that you know, Mr. Wilkeson.”

“With regard to the letter written to Miss Minford,” said Marcus, “there is, unhappily, but little doubt; as this lad, who was well acquainted with the Minford family, can inform you.”

The boy Bog, very reluctantly, and with many awkward breaks, and swingings of his cap, repeated the history of the first letter, and described the young man’s person most minutely, and told how he had followed him in his wild rambles about the town.

The old man listened sadly and quietly; only now and then interrupting the boy’s narrative with questions that were seemingly as calm as a judge’s interrogatories.

“He is a murderer.  Something in the air tells me that he is,” murmured the old man.  “And he is my son.”

The inexpressible heart-broken sadness, with which he uttered these words, brought tears to the eyes of his hearers.

“It may be, my dear Mr. Van Quintem, that your son did not write the anonymous letters to Mr. Minford, notwithstanding the point of resemblance which we think we have detected.  While sitting, at my window, I have often noticed him in his room scribbling at a desk, as if he were practising penmanship.  Perhaps, if you examine the contents of the desk, you may get some further light on the subject.  It is wonderful—­most people would say impossible—­that a man should write two letters so entirely dissimilar as these.”

“My son always excelled in writing.  It was one of the branches that he took prizes in at school.  I will examine the desk; but I fear I shall only confirm my strong suspicions that he is a murderer.  O God!  O God!  Why did he not die with his sainted mother!  Far better would that have been.  It is a hard thing, gentlemen—­it is a very hard thing; but if this boy of mine does not surrender himself to the hands of justice to-morrow, I shall—­I shall—­myself denounce him to the—­”

The afflicted man, overcome with the terrible conflict between a sense of public duty, and a lingering, inextinguishable parental affection, fainted and fell into the arms of Marcus, who sprang to catch him.

While he was still insensible, the lieutenant of police, and the boy Bog, slipped out of the room, and started off on a search for Myndert Van Quintem, jr.

CHAPTER VI.

WHAT PAPER, TYPES, AND INK CAN DO.