DeGolyer met Witherspoon's careless look and held it with a firm gaze. And slowly raising his hand, he said: "He held up a gold chain."
Witherspoon sprang to his feet and exclaimed: "My God, he's crazy!"
"Wait!"
The merchant had turned toward the door. He halted and looked back.
"George Witherspoon"—
"I thought so—crazy. Merciful God, he's mad!"
"Will you listen to me for a moment—just a moment—and I will prove to you that I'm not crazy. I am not your son—my name is Henry DeGolyer. Wait, I tell you!" Witherspoon had staggered against the door-case. "I am not your son, but your son is not dead. I took his place; I thought it a promise made to a dying man."
"What!" he whispered. His voice was gone. "You—you"—
DeGolyer ran to him and eased him into his chair. "Your son is here, and the man who has brought nothing but ill luck will leave you. I tried to soften this, but couldn't," Witherspoon's head shook as he looked up at him. "Wait a moment, and I will call him. No, don't get up."
DeGolyer hastened to the front door, and standing on the steps, he called: "Henry! oh, Henry!"