CHAPTER IX.
THE INTERVIEWERS.
When they reached home at evening they found that five reporters had been shown into the library and were waiting for them.
"Glad to see you, gentlemen," said Witherspoon, smiling in his way of pleasant dismissal, "but really that statement contains all that it is necessary for the public to know.

We don't want to make a sensation of it, you understand." "Of course not," one of the newspaper men replied.
"And," said the merchant, with another smile, "I don't know what else can be said." But the smile had missed its aim.

The attention of the visitors was settled upon Henry.

There was no chance for separate interviews, and questions were asked by first one and then another.
"You had no idea that your parents were alive ?" "Not until after my uncle's death." "Had he ever told you why you were in his charge ?" "Yes; he said that at the death of my parents I had been given to him." "You of course knew the story of the mysterious disappearance of Henry Witherspoon." "Yes; when a boy I had read something about it." "In view of the many frauds that had been attempted, hadn't you a fear that your father might he suspicious of you ?" "No; I had forwarded letters and held proof that could not be disputed.

The mystery was cleared up." "How old are you ?" "I shall be twenty-five next--next"-- "December the fourteenth," Witherspoon answered for him.
"The truth is," said Henry, "uncle did not remember the exact date of my birth." "Was your uncle a man of means ?" "Well, I can hardly say that he was.