Geoffrey lifted his hat and bowed politely to the speaker, as he replied: “You have made a slight mistake, sir; I am not Everet Mapleson, although this is not the first time that I have been taken for him.” “Nonsense; don’t try to play such a joke on me—I’ve known you too many years for you to palm yourself off as any one else,” returned the gentleman, laughingly, while he shot an amused glance at the young man’s companion, as if he suspected that she was the cause of his wishing to remain incog. “I assure you, sir, I am speaking the truth. I am not Everet Mapleson,” Geoffrey reiterated. The stranger’s face grew suddenly overcast. “Then who in thunder are you?” he demanded, in sharp, excited accents. “My name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress, at your service, sir,” Geoffrey responded, courteously, although he had flushed hotly at the curt question. “Geoffrey Dale! Good heavens!” cried the man, shrinking back as if he had been dealt a violent blow, and growing deathly pale. Geoffrey himself turned white at this. He was ever on the alert to gain some knowledge of his parentage, and this man’s strange manner made him think that perhaps he might know something of his early history. “Yes, sir; I perceive that the name affects you strangely. Did you ever hear it before?” he asked, earnestly, searching the stranger’s face. “Ah—years ago—a friend—excuse me—I am very much overcome,” the man murmured, incoherently, as he staggered to a rustic bench near by, where, sinking upon it and bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned aloud. Geoffrey stood transfixed, his face plainly betraying anxiety, dread, and perplexity, while he was inwardly so excited over this strange meeting that Gladys, as she leaned upon his arm, could feel him trembling in every limb. “Will you explain yourself, sir?” Geoffrey said at length, and feeling that the silence and mystery were becoming intolerable. “Do you know aught of me—of any person named Dale?” The gentleman shivered, as if the question had jarred upon some sensitive chord. “Yes,” he answered, after a moment of hesitation, while he lifted a haggard face to his questioner; “years ago I had a friend by that name; but—but——” “Will you relate the history of that friend to me?” Geoffrey asked, with white lips, and speaking with an effort. Something seemed to tell him that he was standing on the very threshold of the revelation which he had longed for so many years. Again the stranger shrank as if he had been smitten. “Why do you ask me that?” be huskily demanded. “Because,” Geoffrey returned, with grave earnestness, “there is a mystery connected with my own life—because, when I was a child I was abandoned in the most cruel manner, and but for the goodness of the man who found me an outcast in the streets of New York——” “New York! How came you there?” interrupted his listener, amazed.