“That is more than I can tell you, sir. This gentleman found me in a state of imbecility, took me to his home, cared for me until I was restored to my right mind, and then adopted and educated me as his own son; but for him I should still have been an imbecile, and more pitiable than the lowest paupers that wander about the streets of that city.” “What! what is this that you are telling me? An imbecile! I cannot understand,” cried the man, looking bewildered. “I do not know how I came to be in such a state,” Geoffrey continued; “the physicians said it was caused by some injury while I was very young, so my life before that time has remained a mystery to myself and those who have befriended me. If you can throw any light upon it, sir, I entreat you to do so.” The man quickly arose from his seat at this appeal, but staggered like a person who had been drinking deeply, and seemed like one who had sustained a terrible mental shock. “I cannot tell you anything now,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I cannot think; I must have time to recover myself.” “I do not understand your excessive emotion, sir. I do not understand your desire to avoid explaining your very strange words and manner,” Geoffrey interposed, looking both pained and anxious; “but I am terribly in earnest about this matter, and if you know anything about my family or antecedents, I beg that you will not keep me in suspense.” “Some other time I will talk with you again,” murmured the stranger, turning aside, and striving to keep his eyes averted. “When? name any place and hour, and I will come to you,” said Geoffrey, eagerly. The man thought a moment, then said: “Come to me at five o’clock this afternoon, at the ‘United States,’ and inquire for room forty-five.” He turned abruptly away, and would have passed on, but Geoffrey detained him. “What is your name, please?” he asked. “That you shall know when we meet again,” was the evasive reply. “Tell me one thing,” pleaded the young man, greatly agitated; “did this—friend of yours, have a son bearing the name that I have given you?” A groan of pain escaped the man. “Come to me at five this afternoon. I am not fit to talk more with you now,” was the tremulous reply, and the man moved weakly away, seeming more like a person eighty years of age than like the upright, distinguished-looking individual of fifty, whom the young couple had met a few moments before. CHAPTER XXV. GEOFFREY PICKS UP A THREAD. “Who can he be? How strangely he acts,” Gladys said, as she gazed after the retreating form. “One would almost believe he has some personal connection with your history, he was so agitated on learning your name.” “I am sure that he has, Gladys; I believe that man is my father!” Geoffrey replied, with quivering lips. “Oh, Geoff!” “I do, dear; and I fear, too, that there is some miserable secret connected with my early life.”