“Well, I think this is the beginning of the end,” remarked Larry, as he went on with his packing. “I think I’ll bring back the stolen boy with me, mother.”
“Do you really mean it, Larry?”
“Well, I think I’m on the best clew I’ve struck yet,” he answered, as he showed his mother the paper containing the story of the letter. “It looks very promising.”
“Oh, I hope it proves so!” Mrs. Dexter exclaimed. “I can feel for his poor mother. The anxiety must be terrible. Oh, Larry, go, and bring him back. I’ll never say a word, no matter how long you stay away, if you can only find that boy. Only come home as soon as you do find him.”
“As fast as steam and electricity can bring us!” he cried cheerfully. “But there, I mustn’t be too hopeful, for, after all, I may fall down on this, as I did in the moving-picture play, though I don’t consider that was altogether my fault.”
“Do you really think the letter was written by the boy?” asked Larry’s sister Lucy.
“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt of that. His mother knows Lorenzo’s handwriting. It was mere luck that some one found his letter, after he threw it out of the window, and mailed it. It might, just as easily, have lain in the street unnoticed. Or, worse still, those who are holding him a prisoner might have found it, and then they would have taken extra precautions, so that he never could have sent word of where he is.”
“Hadn’t you better hurry more, Larry?” suggested his mother. “I should think you’d fairly want to fly out there, before those men move on with the poor boy again.”
“I do wish they had an airship service out to the lakes, but, as matters stand, I don’t believe there is need of any special rush.”
“Why not?”