"That's what I call it, sir. It was around my neck when I was found on the streets of Fairham."
"Can this be true? When was this?"
"About sixteen years ago. But what—what—"
"Stop! what part of the year, Hal? answer me quickly."
"It was one Fourth of July night."
Horace Sumner staggered back.
"Fourth of July," he muttered to himself. "And little Howard disappeared on the twenty-seventh of June. Can it be——"
"You say you do not know anything about yourself?" he asked of Hal.
"No, sir. The people at Fairham tried to find out, but they didn't make a very great effort, I'm thinking, and so I—I—well, you can see how it is."
"You are not to blame, Hal. A better or more noble boy never lived—and—and I thank God that is so, for it—I will explain later. I must see Caleb Allen without delay."