She was leaning toward him with clasped hands.
"Ralph is your son," he said.
She bowed her head, and her lips moved in silence. When she looked up, there were tears in her eyes, but her face was radiant with happiness.
"Is there any, any doubt about it now?" she asked.
"None whatever," he replied.
"And what of Rhyming Joe's story?"
"It was a pure falsehood. He does not tire of telling how he swindled the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of a hundred and fifty dollars, by a plausible lie. He takes much credit to himself for the successful execution of so bold a scheme. But the money got him into trouble. He had too much, he spent it too freely, and, as a consequence, he is serving a short term of imprisonment in the Alleghany county jail for some petty offence."
The tears would keep coming into the lady's eyes; but they were tears of joy, not of sorrow.
"I have the detective's report here in writing," continued Goodlaw; "I will give it to you that you may read it at your leisure. Craft's story was true enough in its material parts, but a gigantic scheme was based on it to rob both you and your son. The odium of that, however, should rest where the expense of the venture rested, on Craft's attorney. It is a matter for sincere congratulation that Ralph's identity was not established by them at that time. He has been delivered out of the hands of sharpers, and his property is wholly saved to him.
"I learn that Craft is dying miserably in his wretched lodgings in Philadelphia. With enough of ill-gotten gain to live on comfortably, his miserly instincts are causing him to suffer for the very necessities of life."