“But wait awhile before you let your mind ran on on that, Hank.  I don’t want to be described and talked about so much.  I know it can’t be kept out of the papers, but we’ll discuss that after a while.  Now, let me tell you what I’ve done.  I wrote to—­to—­father—­don’t that sound strange?  I wrote to him and sent him a copy of uncle’s paper—­I would have sent the original, but I wanted to show that to you.  I also sent a note that mother—­there it is again—­wrote to uncle a long time ago, and a lock of hair and some other little tricks.  I told him to write to me, and here’s his letter.  It came nearly four weeks ago.  And think, Hank, I’ve got a sister—­grown and handsome, too, I’ll bet.”

Ecstasy had almost made the letter incoherent.  It was written first by one and then another hand, with frequent interchanges; and DeGolyer; who fancied that he could pick character oat of the marks of a pen, thought that a mother’s heart had overflowed and that a hard, commercial hand had cramped itself to a strange employment—­the expression of affection.  The father deplored the fact that his son could not be reached by telegraph, and still more did he lament his inability, on account of urgent business demands, to come himself instead of sending a letter.  “Admit of no delay, but set out for home at once,” the father commanded.  “Telegraph as soon as you can, and your mother and I will meet you in New Orleans.  I hope that this may not be exploited in the newspapers.  God knows that in our time we have had enough of newspaper notoriety.  Say nothing to any one, but come at once, and we can give for publication such a statement as we think necessary.  Of course your discovery, as a sequel to your abduction years ago and the tremendous interest aroused at the time, will be of national importance, but I prefer that the news be sent out from this place.”

Here the handwriting was changed, and “love,” “thank God,” “darling child,” and emotion blots filled out the remainder of the page.

“You see,” said Witherspoon, “that I have a reason for depriving you of an early whack at this thing.  Now, I have written again and told them not to be impatient, and that I would leave here as soon as possible.  I have settled up everything here, but I’ve got to go to a little place away over on the coast and close out some mining interests there.”

“It must be of but trifling importance, my boy, and I should think that you’d let it go.”

“No, sir; I’m going to do my duty by that dear old man if I never do anything else while I live.”

He held not a mote of resentment.  Indeed was his young heart “attuned to the sweet melody of forgiveness.”

“By the way, Hank, here’s a letter for you.”

The communication was brief.  It was from New Orleans and ran thus:  “The five letters which we have published have awakened no interest whatever, and I am therefore instructed to discontinue the service.  Inclosed please find check for the amount due you.”