“No, it is not strange,” Geoffrey returned, bitterly; “the man is a miserable coward, and he dare not meet me; his history is doubtless one of shame and wrong—he knew that I would force it from him, and he fears to remain and confess it. But, Gladys, I shall find him yet—some day I will compel him to face me and own the truth. I will hunt him down! he shall not escape me!” “Oh, Geoffrey, pray do not let it trouble you so—there may have been some other reason for his going,” said the young girl, laying her hand sympathetically on his arm. “No—I tell you he was afraid to meet me, and his guilt is evident in his flight; he never would have run away like this, if there had been no guilty secret in his life which he was anxious to conceal from me.” “Did you learn his name?” Gladys inquired. A deep flush arose to Geoffrey’s brow, and he gave a start of annoyance. “No,” he said, “I was so wretched and angry that I never thought to ask his name. When the servant told me he was gone, I turned on my heel and walked out of the house and have been walking ever since, trying to recover my composure.” “That was an oversight, dear,” said his betrothed, gently; “you should have secured his name and address.” “You are right; I will go back immediately and ascertain it.” “Oh, Geoffrey, perhaps it will be better for you to leave it all just here,” the fair girl urged. “‘Where ignorance is bliss’—you know the rest.” “But I know too much already; I can never rest until I sift this matter to the very bottom. Could you, darling? If you were not Uncle August’s own child, and knew there was some mystery connected with your birth, would you be satisfied until you knew the truth?” “No, Geoff, I don’t believe I should,” Gladys replied, thoughtfully, “and—I know that such a discovery would make me very unhappy,” she concluded, with starting tears. Geoffrey stooped and kissed her fondly, then turned abruptly and left the room. The young girl sighed wearily as she slowly followed him. “I am afraid there is trouble in store for him, for my heart is heavy with forebodings,” she murmured. Half an hour later, Geoffrey returned, and there was now a savage glitter in his eyes, although his face was pale and full of pain. He found Gladys watching for him as before. He went up behind her chair, leaned down, and whispered in her ear: “The man’s name is—William Dale, and he registered from Fort Union, New Mexico.” Gladys looked around, a startled expression on her face. “William Dale!” she repeated; “then he must be——” “My father, and—a parent to be proud of, surely,” the young man interposed, with exceeding bitterness. “Oh, Gladys!” he continued, in an agonized whisper, “I feel as if I should go mad—I can bear anything better than dishonor.” Gladys turned and laid her soft cheek for an instant against the hand that was resting on the back of her chair.