LITMIR.BIZ

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about.”

      A servant entered and lighted the lamps. As the thickening dusk vanished before the soft light, Bob­by gave a little gasp of aston­ishment and leaned forward, staring wonderingly at his friend’s face.

      “Well, great Dowie!” he exclaimed as soon as the servant had gone. “What’re you doing to your face? I’ll bet you haven’t shaved in a week.”

      “You lose,” said Allison quickly. “Three weeks.”

      “And your hair! Hathaway, have you boycotted the barbers, or what?”

      Hathaway laughed nervously, snipped the end from a cigar, lighted it, took three or four puffs, flung it in the fire, then rose and locked all the doors.

      He returned to his seat and his puzzled visitor, and for several seconds sat with brows knitted thoughtfully, tapping his fin­gers on the arms of his chair.

      “Bobby,” he said suddenly, “I think I’m going to tell you something—something I’ve kept secret a great many years. But I can’t keep it any longer, and I’ve got to tell somebody, and it may as well be you.”

      “’Twas a dark and stormy night,’” reminded Bob­by reprovingly. “But go ahead.”

      “Some stage thunder and lightning or a little sobby music,” agreed Allison good-naturedly, “would not be inappropriate. For what I am about to reveal, Bobby, is as theatric as it is sensational; and I assure you it is sensational as a twenty-cent melo­drama. Of course, I may rely upon your absolute secrecy. It won’t get past you.”

      He paused.

      “Go on, please.”

      “Bobby”—his voice lowered, he leaned over and looked his hearer steadily, solemnly in the eye—“Bob­by, my name is not Hathaway Allison.”

      Bobby moved uneasily.

      “The man and woman whom everybody thinks are my father and mother are not related to me in any way whatsoever.”

      Bobby stood up impatiently.

      “What the deuce is the matter with you today, Hathaway? You’re as creepy as a ghost professor. Go chop those whiskers off and cheer up. You look worse than a Kan­sas politician after a grasshopper plague.”

      “No, Bobby, the whiskers stay. Shaggy hair, too. I’m going back, Bobby—back where I belong. And”—he brought his clenched fist heavily down upon his knee—“I’m going back tonight.”

      “What’re you talking about? Going back where?”

      Allison settled himself comfortably and lighted a cigarette.

      “Well, Bobby, it’ll sound melodramatic, as I said before; but I’ll condense and cut the pathos. At the precocious age of six or thereabouts, the real Hatha­way Allison was lost, strayed, or stolen. I believe there was quite a turmoil at the time. But pos­sibly you’ve heard of the case—have you?”

      “Of course. Mother’s told me a dozen times. Wasn’t there a mole, or a straw­berry mark, or something or other—”

      “There was a scar—a deep, bright red scar—in the shape of a ‘V’ on the right forearm. But to get on with the story. As you know, a frantic search was started; fabulous rewards offered; detectives the world over did their worst. All to no pur­pose. Several years passed and the topic was forgotten.

      “Then suddenly there was a great flour­ish and a beating of tom-toms, and it was announced to the world that Hathaway Al­lison was found. Congratula­tions, poor relations, neighbors, and reporters swarmed in. The newspapers raved, the populace cheered, all was happiness. The poor kid was exhibited, kissed, hugged, and photographed in twenty different attitudes.”

      The speaker paused abruptly, crossed to the win­dow, stood looking out at turbulent Lake Michigan. After a minute or so he resumed his seat, and in a voice curiously altered, went on: “And the odd part of it all, Bobby, is that Hathaway Allison never was found. Never has been found, and, I am inclined to believe, never will be found.”

      “Then how the—”

      “The day of the hullaballoo there toddled into the kitchen of this house a poor, ragged youngster of nine or ten and asked for food. It seemed he was a sort of mascot of a gang of tramps, who sent him out to beg.

      “The Allisons had been heart-broken since the loss of their child; little Hathaway and the embryo vagabond were not dissimi­lar in appearance; eyes and hair were al­most alike. You may guess the rest.”

      He cleared his throat, shrugged his shoul­ders, and ended briefly: “Well, I was the kid, that’s all.”

      Bobby’s harsh laugh broke the ensuing silence.

      “Well, Well! Why all this emotion? You’re not the only adopted son in Chi­cago. The town’s full of’em.”

      “Yes, I know; but—oh, I’m tired of all this”—he gestured round the luxurious room. “I know it sounds eccentric, but I’m tired of it, all the same—wealth and all that goes with it. I guess it’s in the blood.

      “Along about this time of the spring I usually get the ‘call.’ Heretofore I’ve al­ways turned a deaf ear. But this time I’m going to answer. They’re in Europe now. And I’m going away tonight.”

      Bobby snorted derisively and picked up his hat and gloves.

      “Now, Hathaway, forget all this rubbish and put on your things and come with me to a barbershop. Afterward we’ll have din­ner together. My car’s outside, you know. Come on.”

      But Hathaway smiled and shook his head.

      “No use, my boy. I’m through.”

      “Bosh! You’re not a second Count Tol­stoy, I hope. Are you coming?”

      “No.”

      “Very well. Goodnight.”

      “I guess it’s good-by, Bobby.”

      “See you at the club tomorrow,” called Bobby from the hall. “Good night.”

      When his guest had gone, Allison went to his room, closed the door, and took from the wardrobe a suitcase, which he opened upon the bed. It contained a pair of rusty shoes, rustier trousers, frayed waistcoat and threadbare coat, and a sooty cap much too large.

      With racing heart and trembling fingers, he stripped to his undergarments and donned the base attire. Afterward he knotted a faded bandana round his neck, pulled the cap low upon his brow, and surveyed him­self in the mirror.

      Though obviously pleased with the effect, he stuffed the cap in a pocket, donned a derby, and cloaked his rags in a long over­coat before leaving the house, thus occa­sioning no undue curiosity among the servants.

      Several blocks away he disappeared down a dark alley.

      When some while later a dusty and seedy-looking tramp carrying a large newspaper bundle walked along the Rush Street bridge, the sharpest pair of eyes among Hathaway Allison’s acquaintances would have given him scarcely more than a passing glance.

      In the center of the bridge he stopped, glanced quickly round, and stealthily con­signed his burden to the black water below. Then he made for State Street, and was swallowed up in the bustling, scrambling, six-o’clock crowds.

      Presently, like a rambling derelict, he drifted out of the rushing stream into the harbor of a large doorway.

      A sudden impulse had come over him. He would put his disguise to the test.

      Affecting a woebegone attitude, he eyed furtively from beneath the weathered visor of his cap a well-dressed man of about his own age who stood a few feet away drawing on his gloves.

      At length he slouched over to the pros­perous-looking one, laid a pleading hand on his broad­clothed arm, and muttered a sup­plication for alms.

      CHAPTER

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