“What a fool I am!” cried Henry, “I had the small-pox when I was a little boy; and now, to prove or disprove this fellow’s statement, I will run the risk of taking it again. The rest of you may leave the room or not, just as fear, or curiosity, or thirst, or anything else, moves you. I believe, however, that there is not the least danger of infection.”
“No, no; come out!” Mr. Lawrence entreated, not wishing to be responsible for any more calamities. “Come out, Henry, and leave the man alone.”
“Believe me, Mr. Lawrence, I run no risk,” Henry declared. “I shall——”
“Ha!” shrieked the sick man. “Lawrence? Did you say Law—”
He stopped abruptly. But it was too late; he had betrayed himself.
“Yes, my man; I said Lawrence;” Henry said, excitedly. “Come, now, explain yourself. Say no more about small-pox—we are not to be deceived by any such pretence.”
The sick man looked Uncle Dick full in the face; groaned; shuddered; covered his face with the bed clothes; and then, villain-like, fell to muttering.
After these actions, Jim himself was not afraid.
“Mr. Lawrence, Will, all of you,” Henry said hoarsely, “I think your mystery is about to be unriddled at last. This man can evidently furnish the missing link in your history. He is either the secret enemy or an accomplice of his.” Uncle Dick trembled. After all these years was the mystery to be solved at last?
Stephen’s hurt and Will’s knee were forgotten in the eagerness to hear what this man had to say. All were familiar with Uncle Dick’s story, as far as he knew it himself, and consequently all were eager to have the mysterious part explained. The entire eight assembled round the bedside.