"Well, I am prepared to satisfy you. Sit down and I will tell you the
story."

Philip sat down on the nearest chair and regarded his step-mother
fixedly.

"Whose son am I," he demanded, "if not Mr. Brent's?"

"You are getting on too fast. Jonas," continued his mother, suddenly
turning to her hulking son, on whose not very intelligent countenance
there was an expression of greedy curiosity, "do you understand that
what I am going to say is to be a secret, not to be spoken of to any
one?"

"Yes'm," answered Jonas readily.

"Very well. Now to proceed. Philip, you have heard probably that when
you were very small your father--I mean Mr. Brent--lived in a small town
in Ohio, called Fultonville?"

"Yes, I have heard him say so."

"Do you remember in what business he was then engaged?"

"He kept a hotel."

"Yes; a small hotel, but as large as the place required. He was not
troubled by many guests. The few who stopped at his house were business
men from towns near by, or drummers from the great cities, who had