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“Your father accused Tom of taking his pocketbook from a drawer of his desk, and everything seemed to point to him as the thief. You say Tom denied being guilty but was too proud to say anything more. And so he was driven from home, and has never been seen since that time—is that it, Amos?”

“Yes, though I’ve had a few lines from him about once in six months,” replied the other boy, slowly. “First he went to California; then I heard from him in Japan; and the last time it was in England, where he said he had enlisted under another name, and meant to fight for the Allies, not caring much what happened.”

“Did your father ever know you had heard from him?” asked Jack, as he continued to use his eyes to advantage, and examine the surrounding country from the elevated lookout.

“I didn’t dare show him the postcards that came to me,” replied Amos. “He is such a stern martinet, you know, or rather was up to a month ago, when that queer thing happened. Father made a name for himself as a soldier during the Spanish war. He had told me to consider that my brother was dead, and so I was afraid to tell him about those cards. If our mother had only lived all this terrible trouble would never have happened, for she knew how to handle high-spirited Tom.”