“They? Who?”
“Bernard Belmont and Apollo.”
“Who is Bernard Belmont?”
“My stepfather. He married my mother, after the death of my father. He is a handsome man, but he has a wicked face, and he is a wretch—a wretch!”
The boy grew excited suddenly, almost screaming his words, while he struck his clinched hands together feebly.
“Steady,” warned Frank. “You must not get so excited.”
The boy began to cough, holding both hands to his breast. For some minutes he was shaken by that convulsive cough.
“Come,” said Frank, “let me get you to the hotel. You must have a doctor. There must be no further delay.”
“No, stop!” and the boy held to Merriwell’s arm. “I must tell you now. I seem to feel that my strength is going—going! I must tell you! He—he killed my mother!”
“Who—Bernard Belmont?”