"Stranger things than that have happened," cried Basil Hurlhurst, tremulously. "You must give me hope, Mr. Tudor. You are a skillful, expert detective; you will find her, if any one can. If my other child were living," he continued, with an effort, "you know it would make considerable difference in the distribution of my property. On the night my lost child was born I made my will, leaving Whitestone Hall and the Hurlhurst Plantations to the child just born, and the remainder of my vast estates I bequeathed to my daughter Pluma. I believed my little child buried with its mother, and in all these years that followed I never changed that will--it still stands. My daughter Pluma is to be married to-morrow night. I have not told her of the startling discovery I have made; for if anything should come of it, her hopes of a lifetime would be dashed. She believes herself sole heiress to my wealth. I have made up my mind, however," he continued, eagerly, "to confide in the young man who is to be my future son-in-law. If nothing ever comes of this affair, Pluma need never know of it." "That would be a wise and safe plan," assented the detective. "Wealth can have no influence over him," continued the father, reflectively; "for Mr. Rex Lyon's wealth is sufficient for them, even if they never had a single dollar from me; still, it is best to mention this matter to him." Rex Lyon! Ah! the detective remembered him well--the handsome, debonair young fellow who had sought his services some time since, whose wife had died such a tragic death. He remembered how sorry he had been for the young husband; still he made no comment. He had little time to ruminate upon past affairs. It was his business now to glean from Mr. Hurlhurst all the information possible to assist him in the difficult search he was about to commence. If he gave him even the slightest clew, he could have had some definite starting point. The detective was wholly at sea--it was like looking for a needle in a hay-stack. "You will lose no time," said Basil Hurlhurst, rising to depart. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "I had forgotten to leave you my wife's portrait. I have a fancy the child, if living, must have her mother's face." At that opportune moment some one interrupted them. Mr. Tudor had not time to open the portrait and examine it then, and, placing it securely in his private desk, he courteously bade Mr. Hurlhurst good-afternoon; adding, if he _should_ find a possible clew, he would let him know at once, or, perhaps, take a run up to Whitestone Hall to look around a bit among the old inhabitants of that locality. It was almost time for quitting the office for the night, when the detective thought of the portrait. He untied the faded blue ribbon, and touched the spring; the case flew open, revealing a face that made him cry out in amazement: "Pshaw! people have a strange trick of resembling each other very often," he muttered; "I must be mistaken."