He knew there had been another visitor there before him—although he had been told nothing regarding the stranger’s visit of the week previous—for the broken step and the trampled grass gave ample evidence of that fact. He wondered if it could have been the man who had so suddenly fled from Saratoga after meeting him, who had, perhaps, been driven there by sorrow and remorse to look once more upon the ruin he had wrought. He grew more and more fearful that the story of his birth must be a sorrowful one, for it was evident that no one bearing the name of William Dale had ever resided in Fort Union. He would not have been able to trace the man beyond that point at all, but for his accidental meeting with the old miner, who had worked in the mines where he had owned an interest, and thus been able to direct him to this remote village. If William Dale had never lived at Fort Union, why had he registered from that place? If he was now living at Fort Union, and his name was not William Dale, why had he used that address again after the lapse of so many years? There was something very mysterious about the whole matter, and it began to seem like a hopeless puzzle to the young man. He finally left the house and bent his steps toward that small inclosure where, in the gathering dusk, he could just see the pure white head-stone gleaming among the vines that grew all around it. He entered the place and approached the spot, noting that here, too, there were signs of a recent visitor, and knelt down to read the name that had been inscribed upon the spotless marble. “Annie,” he read, and the single name sent a thrill through every fiber of his being. Here, too, there seemed evidence that there was some sad tale of wrong and suffering connected with the life of the girl who had been buried there, for had she been a wife and with nothing to conceal, would not a fond husband have wished the name that he had given her also chiseled there? “Oh, if I could only know!” Geoffrey groaned within himself, as he bowed his head upon the stone, feeling completely baffled, and as if all trace must end here. “Was this woman my mother? She was something to William Dale, and William Dale is something to me, or he would never have betrayed so much emotion upon meeting me, and then fled from me. Was she his lawful wife? Am I her child, and had I honorable birth? “Good heavens!” he added, aloud, “there must be some way to solve these questions. Oh, if the Fates would but guide me to some one who could tell me how to unravel this mystery!” “Ahem! Well, youngster, I shouldn’t wonder if I was yer man. What’ll ye give to hear a prettier love-story than ever was writ?” CHAPTER XXVI. A THRILLING STORY.