"What is that you say?" cried Mr. Page, his face growing haggard and ghastly. "My boy——my son—-a fugitive from justice!"
"He may not be your son, sir," broke in Tom Colquitt.
Then the whole story came out. With it Dick described the birthmarks he had seen on Tag when the latter was at the swimming pool.
"That's my boy—-my son!" declared Mr. Page. "And, oh! To think of the fate that has come upon him. Wanted, perhaps for homicide!"
Then suddenly the flash of determination returned to the father's eyes. He rose, stood erect, and went on:
"If he is my son, he needs guidance, aid—-protection of such rights as he may still have left. Above all, he must surrender himself and go back to face the laws of the land like a man! If he has done wrong, he must bow to the decision of a court, whatever that may be. If this boy is my son, I will see to it that he does all of this. If he is not my son, then——-"
"Then you will do well to drop him like a piece of hot metal," interposed the detective quietly.
"Silence!" flashed Mr. Page. "If Tag Mosher is not really my son, then I will stand by his last spark of manhood as though he were my son, and in memory of my own boy!"
"If you will permit me," proposed Tom Colquitt, "I will go back to the road, get into the car and order your man to drive me to the county jail. There I will see old Bill Mosher, and drag the truth out of him. What Mosher has to say will be to the point."
"Go, by all means!" pleaded Mr. Page, who had now sunk down into his seat trembling.