Frank Merriwell's Son; Or, A Chip Off the Old Block

by Burt L. Standish

"Why, he doesn't seem to be ill, Inza," said Merry. "You frightened me. I thought he was dying."

She clutched his arm with a grip that was almost frantic in its astonishing strength.

"Look at him!" she hoarsely cried. "Look close!"

"What is it, Inza? What do you see?"

"His hair—can't you see the change?"

"The change?"

"Yes, yes! His hair is lighter!"

"Lighter?"

"Yes, lighter than little Frank's! And his eyes—his eyes are blue! Frank's were brown!"

"Great heavens, it's true!" burst from Merriwell. "What does it mean, Inza? What sort of juggling in this?"