“But you told me the boy’s father was a rough, drunken tramp, who died in the infirmary.”
“Yes, sir, I did,” said Mr Hippetts, when he had a private interview with the doctor next day. “But it seems strange.”
“Very,” said the doctor.
Helen also agreed that it was very strange, and investigations followed, the result of which proved, beyond doubt, that Dexter Grayson, otherwise Obed Coleby, was really Maximilian Vanburgh, the son of Captain Vanburgh and Alice, his wife, both of whom died within two years of the day when, through the carelessness of a servant, the little fellow strayed away out through the gate and on to the high-road, where he was found far from home, crying, by the rough, tipsy scoundrel who passed that way.
The little fellow’s trouble appealed to what heart there was left in the man’s breast, and he carried him on, miles away, careless as to whom he belonged to, and, day by day, further from the spot where the search was going on. The child amused him; and in his way he was kind to it, while the little fellow was of an age to take to any one who played with and petted him. Rewards and advertisements were vain, for they never reached the man’s eyes, and his journeyings were on and on through a little-frequented part of the country, where it was nobody’s business to ask a rough tramp how he came by the neglected-looking, ragged child, who clung to him affectionately enough. The little fellow was happy with him for quite three months, as comparison of dates proved, and what seemed strange became mere matter of fact—to wit, that Dexter was a gentleman by birth.
All this took time to work out, but it was proved incontestably, the old nurse having saved all that the rough fellow had left of his little companion’s belongings; and when everything was made plain, there was the fact that Dexter was an orphan, and that he had found a home that was all a boy could desire.
“There, papa! what have you to say now?” said Helen to the doctor one day.
“Say?” he said testily. “Danby will laugh at me when he knows, and declare my theory is absurd. I shall never finish that book.”
“But you will not try such an experiment again?” said Helen laughingly.
Just then Dexter came in sight, bright, frank, and manly, and merrily whistling one of Helen’s favourite airs.