The day after he started Grant, on approaching the house at the close of business, fell in with the postman, just ascending the steps.
“Have you got a letter for me?” he asked.
“I have a letter for Grant Thornton,” was the reply.
“That is my name,” said Grant.
He took the letter, supposing it to be from home. He was surprised to find that it had a Western postmark. He was more puzzled by the feminine handwriting.
“Have you heard anything from the little boy?” asked the postman, for Mr. Reynolds' loss was well known.
Grant shook his head.
“Nothing definite,” he said. “Mr. Reynolds has gone to Georgia to follow up a clew.”
“Two weeks since,” said the postman, “I left a letter here dated at Scipio, Ill. It was in a boy's handwriting. I thought it might be from the lost boy.”
“A letter from Scipio, in a boy's handwriting!” repeated Grant, surprised. “Mr. Reynolds has shown me all his letters. He has received none from there.”