Burnham Breaker | Page 8

schemer. But his very
next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious
attention.
"Do you remember," the old man asked, "the Cherry Brook bridge
disaster that occurred near Philadelphia some eight years ago?"
"Yes," replied Burnham, straightening up in his chair, "I do; I have
good reason to remember it. Were you on that train?"
"I was on that train. Terrible accident, wasn't it?"
"Terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed."
"Wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and
burned up after they went down, would it?"
"The fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me
these questions?"
"You were on board, I believe, you and your wife and your child, and
all went down. Isn't that so?"
"Yes, it is so. But why, I repeat, are you asking me these questions? It
is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, I assure you."
Craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:--
"You and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not,

just as the fire was creeping up to you?"
The old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by calling up
painful memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he continued:--
"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in
the wreck, wasn't he?"
"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any
object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at once;
if not, I have no time to listen to you further."
"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important object,
which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to answer my
question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at Cherry Bridge,
wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?"
"Simply this, that you are mistaken."
"What do you mean?"
"Your boy is not dead."
Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face
took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his lips.
"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof of
it."
"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw
him--yesterday."
"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you."
Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary
hopelessness on his face.

"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make
you fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of
the truth of what I say."
"Very well; produce them."
The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and
placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of
coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet
from his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the
satchel. Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he
shook it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little
flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained and
soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were
completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned, the
edges of which were still black and crumbling.
"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man.
Burnham seized it with both hands.
"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where did
you get it? Where did you get it, I say?"
Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something
else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of velvet and
lace, and laid it on the table.
This, too, was grasped by Burnham with eager fingers, and looked
upon with loving eyes.
"Do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now
that I have some knowledge of what I am talking about?"
His listener did not answer the question. His mind seemed to be far
away. He said, finally:--
"There--there was a locket, a little gold locket. It had his father's picture

in it. Did--did you find that?"
The visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket.
The father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly for
a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears.
"It was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell me
now--where did you get them?"
"I came by them honestly, Mr. Burnham, honestly; and I have kept
them faithfully. But I