"Oh, father! father! father!"
"My dear boy! My Cyril! Thank God! Oh, thank God!" and the tall, fur-clad man in the doorway clasped his child to his heart.
* * * * * *
"But, father," asked Cyril an hour later, as they sat together talking in his little bedroom, which Mr. Morton had obtained Mr. Ellison's permission to share with his son that night—"but, father, I can understand your coming round after everyone had thought you dead, and also your having quite a long illness after that, but I don't know yet how it was you found me. Why have you not told me that, father dear?"
"We have been so very happy, Cyril, for this last hour, and that is a sad story. Must you hear it to-night, my boy? Can you not wait till to-morrow?"
"Oh! tell me now, please," said Cyril wistfully.
"Very well, my boy." But the father sighed. "You know the police were busy a long time, trying to find the scoundrels who attacked the train. They did so at last, and after a desperate fight some of them were secured. They were tried in the police-court in Menominee, where I and some others had to bear witness against them. It was proved that two of them had been guilty of murder. The captain was one and Whiterock, the man who attacked me, was another."
"But, father, Whiterock didn't kill you after all!" said Cyril quickly.
"No, not me. But unfortunately he killed someone else, and he was condemned to die. Shortly before the hour of his death the prison chaplain sent me a note to tell me that the criminal, Whiterock, greatly desired to see me. Of course I visited his cell as soon as I could. Then Whiterock told me that he wished to do one just deed before he died. He had carried you away from the train and caused you to fall into the brigands' power; he would try to atone for that by telling me all about you and where you were."
"But how did he know——" began Cyril.