“Go, by all means!” pleaded Mr. Page, who had now sunk down into his seat trembling.

“And I’ll go with him,” declared Hibbert, jumping up.  “Cheer up, my old friend, and we’ll find out all the facts that there are to be learned.  We’ll be back here as speedily as possible.”

The hours passed—–­hours of rain at the camp.  It was a deluge that kept all hands in the tent, though even that place was wet.  A pretense of supper was prepared over two oil stoves.  Mr. Page made an effort to eat, but was not highly successful.

The hours dragged on, but none thought of going to bed.  At last quick steps were heard outside.

“That must be Colquitt and Hibbert!” cried Mr. Page, starting up, trembling, though he soon recovered his self-control.

“Don’t go out in the rain.  Wait for another moment, sir,” begged Dick, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Do you think I could wait another minute?” demanded Mr. Page excitedly.  Then he darted out into the downpour.

“Hibbert, is that you?” he screamed.

CHAPTER XIX

SEEN IN A NEW, WORSE LIGHT

“It’s Hibbert,” was the reply from the darkness.

Then two figures came tramping through the rain, over the soggy ground, next splashing into the tent, the flaps of which Dick and Harry held aside.

As they came in Mr. Page almost tottered toward them.

“Well,” he demanded impatiently.  “What did you learn?”

“I guess the boy is yours, Mr. Page,” Colquitt answered.  “Bill Mosher told us a pretty straight story.  He found the child at the railway wreck, and he and his wife took it home, expecting that parents or friends would soon claim it.  Bill says his wife was a good woman, and, when no one claimed the boy, she kept it and loved it as her own.  Bill admits that his part in the transaction was due to the hope of receiving a reward.  After his wife died, Bill, it seems, went to the dogs, followed his naturally shiftless bent, and, from a common vagrant, became a drunkard and common thief.  Yet Bill claims, with an air of a good deal of virtue, that he never stole anything he didn’t really need, and that he brought Tag up the same way.”

Mr. Page, white-faced and trembling, listened to the detective’s dry recital.

“You have taken pains to find further verification of the fact that this unhappy boy is my son, haven’t you?”

“Oh, yes,” the detective went on.  “Bill described with great minuteness the clothing the child wore when found, even to the embroidered letter ‘p’ on the underclothing.  And Bill tells me that his sister has kept that clothing ever since, in the hope that something might come of it.  The sister also has two pictures of Tag, taken when a baby.”

“Where does that sister live?” cried the father.  “Take me to her home at once!”