“Is your father living?” asked Miss Stone, who had become interested.

“Yes; he is a broker.”

“And no doubt you have a nice home?”

“Yes, very nice.  It is a brownstone house uptown.  I wonder whether I shall ever see it again?”

“Surely you will.  I am surprised that you have not written to tell your father where you are.  He must be feeling very anxious about you.”

“I did write, asking him to send me money to come home.  Abner was going with me.  But no answer came to my letter.”

“That is strange.  Your father can’t have received the letter.”

“So I think, Miss Stone; but I directed it all right.”

“Do you think any one would intercept it?”

“Mrs. Estabrook might,” said Herbert, after a pause for consideration.

“Who is she?”

“The housekeeper.”

“What makes you think so?  Didn’t she like you?”

“No; besides, it was her nephew who carried me off.”

Miss Stone asked further questions, and Herbert told her all the particulars with which the reader is already acquainted.  When he had finished, she said:  “My advice is, that you write to your boy friend, Grant Thornton, or tell me what to write, and I will write to him.  His letters will not be likely to be tampered with.”

“I think that will be a good idea,” said Herbert; “Grant will tell papa, and then he’ll send for me.”

Miss Stone brought her desk to the bedside, and wrote a letter to Grant at Herbert’s dictation.  This letter she sent to the village postoffice immediately by Abner.

CHAPTER XXXVI

GRANT RECEIVES A LETTER

Mr. Reynolds had spared no expense in his efforts to obtain tidings of his lost boy.  None of his agents, however, had succeeded in gaining the smallest clew to Herbert’s whereabouts.  Through the public press the story had been widely disseminated, and in consequence the broker began to receive letters from various points, from persons professing to have seen such a boy as the one described.  One of these letters came from Augusta, Ga., and impressed Mr. Reynolds to such an extent that he decided to go there in person, and see for himself the boy of whom his correspondent wrote.

The day after he started Grant, on approaching the house at the close of business, fell in with the postman, just ascending the steps.

“Have you got a letter for me?” he asked.

“I have a letter for Grant Thornton,” was the reply.

“That is my name,” said Grant.

He took the letter, supposing it to be from home.  He was surprised to find that it had a Western postmark.  He was more puzzled by the feminine handwriting.

“Have you heard anything from the little boy?” asked the postman, for Mr. Reynolds’ loss was well known.

Grant shook his head.

“Nothing definite,” he said.  “Mr. Reynolds has gone to Georgia to follow up a clew.”