“Chloroform,” murmured Larry.
“Then I felt myself going down,” resumed the boy. “When I awoke we were in the cellar, under the stage. He had taken me down a trap-door.”
“And that is why none of the theater men saw you taken out,” spoke Madame Androletti.
“Yes,” said Lorenzo. “I was kept in the basement three days. Then again they made me unconscious. In fact, I was so weak all that time that I could not call out. I think they must have given me medicine to keep me quiet. Then they took me away. Where it was I do not know, but we always seemed to be on the move. We always went away at night. I think I was in New York part of the time. Then we went on trains and boats. At last I was kept for some time in one room. From there I sent the letter.”
“Detroit,” said Larry. “I was there soon after they took you away.”
“And from then on,” said Lorenzo, “we have been traveling about. I heard them say something like ‘You Ron’ and I wrote that on a piece of paper, and left it behind. I hoped some one would find it.”
“I did,” said Larry, with a smile. “It gave me the right clew to Lake Huron, though that was a new way to spell it.”
“And from then on we have been on the lake,” resumed the boy, as he sat with his arm around his mother. “They kept me below, most of the time, but I knew we were traveling. To-day they seemed worried. It was the night after the storm. Before the storm broke one of the men had gone off in a small boat.”
“That was when they cut our cable,” said the young reporter.
“Then came the fog,” said Lorenzo, “after we had run as fast as we could. Then our engine broke. I was sick from the waves. They put me in a small boat, left the motorboat afloat, and came ashore. Then—oh, how I begged them to let me go, but they would not. And—and—you came!” he exclaimed, with a bright look at Larry. “That is all!”