you because your name was Farrell. We were always reading of you in
the papers. We have all your books, and a picture of you in the
billiard-room. When folks ask me if we are any relation--sometimes
I tell 'em we ARE."

As though challenging me to object, she paused.

"It's quite possible," I said hastily. And, in order to get rid of
them, I added: "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll write to Ireland
and----"

Farrell shook his head firmly. "You don't need to write to
Ireland," he said, "for what we want."

"What DO you want?" I asked.

"We want a SON," said Farrell; "an adopted son. We want to adopt
YOU!"

"You want to WHAT?" I asked.

To learn if Mrs. Farrell also was mad, I glanced toward her, but
her expression was inscrutable. The face of the Irishman had grown
purple.

"And why not?" he demanded. "You are a famous young man, all right,
and educated. But there's nothing about me I'm ashamed of! I'm
worth five million dollars and I made every cent Of it myself--and
I made it honest. You ask Dun or Bradstreet, ask----"