“Wish you’d hand me a match,” said Witherspoon.  “My cigar’s out.  Thank you.”

“Got a doctor for him, but he grew worse.  Sometimes he was delirious, but at times his mind was strangely clear; and once, when he was rational, he told his friend that he was going to die.  He didn’t appear to care very much so far as it concerned himself, but the thought of the grief that his death would cause his parents seemed to lie as a cold weight upon his mind.  And it was then that he made a most peculiar request.  He compelled his friend to promise to take his name; to go to his home; to be a son to his father and mother.  His friend begged, but had to yield.  Well, the rich man’s son died, we’ll suppose, and the poor fellow took his name on the spot.  He had to leave hurriedly, for a father and a mother and a sister were waiting in a distant home.  A ship that had just come was ready to sail, and a month might pass before the landing of another vessel.  He went to these people as their son”—­

“Oh, yes,” said Witherspoon, “and fell in love with the sister, and then had to tell his story.”

“No, he didn’t.  He loved the girl, but only as a brother should.  He was not wholly acceptable to his father, but”—­

“Ah, that’s all very well,” said Witherspoon, “but what proof had he?”

DeGolyer met Witherspoon’s careless look and held it with a firm gaze.  And slowly raising his hand, he said:  “He held up a gold chain.”

Witherspoon sprang to his feet and exclaimed:  “My God, he’s crazy!”

“Wait!”

The merchant had turned toward the door.  He halted and looked back.

“George Witherspoon”—­

“I thought so—­crazy.  Merciful God, he’s mad!”

“Will you listen to me for a moment—­just a moment—­and I will prove to you that I’m not crazy.  I am not your son—­my name is Henry DeGolyer.  Wait, I tell you!” Witherspoon had staggered against the door-case.  “I am not your son, but your son is not dead.  I took his place; I thought it a promise made to a dying man.”

“What!” he whispered.  His voice was gone.  “You—­you”—­

DeGolyer ran to him and eased him into his chair.  “Your son is here, and the man who has brought nothing but ill luck will leave you.  I tried to soften this, but couldn’t,” Witherspoon’s head shook as he looked up at him.  “Wait a moment, and I will call him.  No, don’t get up.”

DeGolyer hastened to the front door, and standing on the steps, he called:  “Henry! oh, Henry!”

“All right, Hank.”

Young Witherspoon got out of the cab and came up the steps.

“He is waiting for you, Henry.”  And speaking to the footman, DeGolyer added:  “There’s nothing the matter.  Send those girls about their business.”

Young Witherspoon followed DeGolyer into the library.  The merchant was standing with his shaky hands on the back of a chair.  He stepped forward and tried to speak, but failed.