“Not content with this, you drove from the house my dear niece, Florence. You made me act cruelly toward her. I fear she will not forgive me.”
But just then the door opened, and Florence, rushing into the room, sank at her uncle’s feet.
“Oh, uncle,” she said, “will you take me back?”
“Yes, Florence, never again to leave me. And who is this?” he asked, fixing his eyes on Dodger, who stood shyly in the doorway.
“I’ll tell you, sir,” said Tim Bolton. “That is your own son, whom I stole away from you when he was a kid, being hired to do it by Curtis Waring.”
“It’s a lie,” said Curtis, hoarsely.
“Come to me, my boy,” said Mr. Linden, with a glad light in his eyes.
“At last Heaven has heard my prayers,” he ejaculated. “We will never be separated. I was ready to die, but now I hope to live for many years. I feel that I have a new lease of life.”
With a baffled growl Curtis Waring darted a furious look at the three.
“That boy is an impostor,” he said. “They are deceiving you.”