gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it.

Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of
that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was
really alive.

"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that
I might have assisted you in the search for him?"

Craft hesitated a moment.

"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too
severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day
to find him myself."

"Well, let that pass. Where is he now? Where is the boy who, you say,
is my son?"

"Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet. I know where he
is. I can bring him to you on two days' notice. But, before I do that,
I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation,
not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but
also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you."

Burnham's brow darkened.

"Ah! I see," he said. "This is to be a money transaction. Your object
is to get gain from it. Am I right?"

"Exactly. My motive is not wholly an unselfish one, I assure you."