Geoffrey started to his feet as if electrified, as these unexpected words fell upon his ears, and found himself face to face with a man of perhaps fifty years, his face seamed and browned by hardships and exposure, rough in appearance, uncouth in dress, and with an anxious, alert air about him, which conveyed the impression that he feared being identified and apprehended for some reason or other. “Who are you?” Geoffrey sternly demanded, for he knew that country was not the safest place in the world, and it flashed upon his mind that the man might be a robber, and had followed him there with some evil intent. “I’m all right. I’ve no wish to harm ye, sir,” was the reassuring response, as the new-comer appeared to read his thought, “and I guess it don’t matter much who I be, provided I can tell ye what ye seem to want to know about this here grave.” “No,” replied Geoffrey, his suspicions instantly vanishing. “If you can give me the history of the poor lady who lies here, and tell me where I can find the man who brought her here, I’ll pay you well, and ask no further questions about yourself. But how came you to follow me to this place?” “I didn’t foller ye. I was sittin’ yonder, behind that clump of spruce, when ye hove in sight. I didn’t mean to show up at all, but when I saw ye so eager by this here tombstone, I was kind o’ curious to know what yer game was, and crept on ye unawares. But, I say, youngster,” the man added, suddenly taking a step forward, and peering eagerly into Geoffrey’s face, “who are you?” The rough fellow had actually grown pale, and his breath came in gasps through his tightly locked teeth. “I am an Eastern man,” answered Geoffrey, evasively. “Is—is your name Geoffrey?” the man demanded, in a hoarse whisper. “Yes.” “Ha! Geoffrey Dale?” “Yes.” “Great Christopher! I—I thought so. Something about yer sent a chill over me the minute I laid eyes on ye,” said the man, trembling and terribly agitated. “Boy—boy,” he continued, in a tone of fear, “how on earth came ye and me to turn up together here, of all places in the world?” Geoffrey was amazed at his words. Evidently the man knew something about him, and with that knowledge there was connected some incident that caused him personal fear. Instantly the young man’s mind reverted to the condition in which Mr. Huntress had first found him—a poor abandoned imbecile. Had this rough creature known of that, or had anything to do with it? His next words enlightened him somewhat. “You’re all right, too, in the upper story, and ye can talk,” he muttered. “Where ye been all these years?” “All these years, How many years?” queried Geoffrey, with a rapidly beating heart. “It’s eight years ago, last spring, since I set eyes on ye, and little thought I should ever see you again; never with that look on yer face. Where ye been, I say?”