"I—I—perhaps so." Dunston Porter's voice was also quivering. "Can you prove this story about being found near a railroad?"
"Yes."
"About thirteen years ago?"
"Yes."
"In the eastern part of the United States?"
"Yes, near a village called Crumville. They say I said something about a bad man who wouldn't buy some candy for me. It may be that that man put me off the train."
"He did!" almost shouted Dunston Porter. "It was Sandy Margot, the worthless husband of the crazy nurse, Polly Margot, you just mentioned. She took the child and turned the boy over to her husband. Margot wanted to make money out of the abduction, but, during his travels with the little one, he learned that detectives were after him, and, when the train stopped one day, he put the child off and promised it some candy to keep it from crying. He got away, and we never heard of him for about six years. Then he was rounded up in a burglary and badly wounded. He confessed at the hospital, but he could not tell the name of the place where the child had been dropped. We made a search, but could discover nothing. Margot died, and so did his crazy wife; and there the whole matter has been resting."
"But who am I?" cried Dave, unable to restrain the question any longer.
"Oh, you don't know that? I thought Billy Dill knew. If what you have told me is true, you are the son of my twin brother, David Breslow Porter."