"Tell me, is this money yours?" questioned the youth, "I would do nothing in the dark."
"You are right, boy; no, the money is not mine, I am not worth half the sum. I have no time for a long story, but there is one—a lady, rich beyond anything you ever dreamed of—who takes a deep interest in this bad man."
"What, Florence—Miss Craft?" exclaimed Robert.
"No, an older and still more noble victim. I had but to tell her the money would be used for him, and, behold, ten thousand dollars—the sum he thought enough to pay for your eternal ruin. My poor nephew!"
"Nephew, did you say, nephew, Jacob?"
"Yes, call me Jacob—Jacob Strong—Uncle Jacob—call me anything you like, for I have loved you, I have tried you—kiss me! kiss me! I haven't had you in my arms since you were a baby—and I want something to warm my heart. I never thought it could ache as it has to-night."
"Uncle Jacob—my mother's only brother—I do not understand it, but to know this is enough!"
The youth flung himself upon Jacob's bosom, and for a moment was almost crushed in those huge arms.
"Now that has done me lots of good!" exclaimed the uncle, brushing a tear from his eyes with the cuff of his coat, a school-boy habit that came back with the first powerful home feeling. "Now go down and feed the serpent with this money. You won't be afraid to mind me now."