"I shall never forget you," said he. "And I will give you all you need, Mary,--you won't have to worry about money." But the girl scarcely heard him; she was not thinking about money. "And where will you go?" he asked finally. "I don't know," said she. "I have no home. Where should I go? I suppose I'll go back where I came from--back to Albany." Robert van Rensselaer looked at her; the name Albany brought back a sudden memory to him. "Well, I declare," he said, "you did not tell me you came from Albany." He hesitated a moment and then went on, "Perhaps, maybe, you know a girl there--But I don't know her name," he added, with a slight laugh. "Then I'm afraid I couldn't tell you," said the other, answering his smile. "But I knew very few people there. I never knew any one at all until after my mother went away some years ago." "Went away?" asked the other. "I thought you said she died." "She must have died, for she was very ill," said the girl. "But I don't know what became of her--she never came back." The man was gazing at her in surprise. "Never came back?" he echoed; and then he added, "What was your mother's name?" "Helen," said she; and he sunk back. "Ah, it was an awful thing," went on the girl, her voice trembling. "Poor, dear mother, how hard she worked to take care of me--and how good she was! She worked herself to death, Jim, that's the truth." "What was the matter with her?" "She had consumption," said the girl, and she saw him start. "What's the matter?" she asked. "Nothing," said he, "that is--it's just a queer coincidence; but what was your father's name?" "I never knew anything about my father," said the girl. "Mother never told me; but I always suspected that he had not married her--that is--" She stopped again, for his manner was strange; then, however, she went on. "I think he was rich," she said, "and very handsome and good. She gave me a locket with his picture that she said only he would have the key to open; she had lost the one he gave her." And again she stopped; a ghastly, ashen pallor had come over the face of Robert van Rensselaer; he leaned close to her, his eyes, his whole face, looming large with horror. His hand shook like an autumn leaf as he stretched it out to her. "A locket! a locket!" he gasped. "My God! Have you got it?" "Yes," cried the girl, in astonishment, and she went to the bureau. She held it to him as he ran toward her, and he took one glance at it and staggered back like a man struck to the heart with a knife. He gave one wild, horrible cry, and clutched his hands to his head, and reeled, and would have fallen. But Mary had sprung to him in terror. "Jim! Jim!" she cried, "what is it?" She would have caught him, but he shrunk from her touch as from a wild beast. "No! no!" he screamed, and crouched in the corner with eyes of dreadful fear. "No! go back!" "But, Jim," cried the girl, "what is it? What is the matter?"