“Drop that, lad,” he said, earnestly. “I’ve thought about it for twenty years to no end. No good will ever come of it--nothing but disappointment and vexation, shame and sorrow. Forget the past, and start fair; the world is all before you. You have got your chance now. Desmond is a friend worth having; and this man De Bergerac may be a good friend too, if you serve him well. Wipe out the memory of that old story, my lad. Your father has chosen to ignore you; ignore him, and cry quits. The day may come when he’ll hear your name, and regret that he has forfeited the right to call you his son. Don’t waste your thoughts upon him, Eustace. The man may be dead and gone for aught we know. Let him rest.” “And my mother’s wrongs--are they to be forgotten? Do you remember the other evening in Highgate Cemetery, Uncle Dan? You thought I was praying, perhaps, when I knelt by my mother’s grave; but I was not praying. On my knees beside that newly laid turf I swore to be revenged on the man who blighted the life of her who lies beneath it. I must find that man, Uncle Daniel, and you must help me to find him.” “Was there no clue to his identity to be found in those letters?” asked Daniel, after a pause. “Only one, and that a very slight one. He had written a book,--a book which seems to have been popular, and which my poor mother was reading when first he saw her. Can you remember any particular book which attracted attention in ’43?” “No, my lad; my memory is not good enough for that. There are people who might be able to remember, and there are literary papers that might help you. But scarcely a year goes by in which there are not a dozen books that make some slight sensation. This must have been a woman’s book, though,--a poem or a novel, or something of that kind,--or your mother would scarcely have been reading it.” “The book was published either anonymously or under some _nom de plume_,” said Eustace; “and even if I discover the right book, I may not be able to identify it with the writer. So you see the clue is a very poor one. I shall go to Bayham, Uncle Dan. Accident may help me to some better clue than the letters afford. The man was staying at the George Hotel; I may make some discovery there. He speaks of a Miss K., a friend and confidante of my mother. Can you tell me who she was?”