“Eight years ago, last spring,” began Geoffrey, gravely, while he closely watched every expression on his companion’s countenance, “I was one day wandering, a poor, demented boy, in the streets of New York city. My strange appearance and actions attracted a mob of urchins, who began to make sport of me. They were in the midst of their cruelty when a carriage stopped near me, and a beautiful little girl beckoned to me, at the same time opening the door of the carriage. I darted away from my tormentors, sprang in beside her, and the next moment was driven away in safety, much to the rage of the boys. The girl’s father took an interest in me, consulted a physician, who made an examination of my case, and reported that my demented state had been caused by a heavy blow on the head several years before.” Geoffrey saw the man shudder, as he made this statement, while a low exclamation of pain or fear escaped him, and a dim suspicion began to dawn on his mind. “It was found,” he resumed, still watching the man, “that my skull had been fractured, and that a portion of the bone was pressing on my brain, which caused temporary paralysis, and made me an imbecile.” Another shudder, more violent than the other, strengthened his suspicion. “This physician and another,” he went on, “believed that an operation might be performed which would improve my condition, if it did not fully restore me to my right mind. Mr. Huntress, the man who had taken me under his protection, authorized the doctors to undertake the operation. They did so—it was successful, and I was restored.” “Heaven be praised!” ejaculated his listener, heartily but tremulously. “I haven’t that quite so heavy on my conscience any longer.” Geoffrey started, and his face brightened. He was gaining light, little by little. “The first words that I uttered on coming to myself,” he continued, “were something about a woman named—Margery——” At the sound of that name, the man before him bounded from his feet as if he had been shot. “Margery!” he repeated, in an agonized voice, his face twitching, his hands clenching themselves convulsively, while his eyes rolled in every direction, a look of wildest fear in them. “Do you remember Margery!” He leaned breathlessly toward the young man, while he awaited his answer with trembling eagerness. “I remember only this—and it is only a confused remembrance, too,” Geoffrey replied, “that some one by that name was kind and good to me—that she was called Margery, and I loved her. I have a dim recollection that something happened to her—that she was hurt or struck——” On hearing this, the man stretched out his hand with a quick, appealing gesture. “Don’t—don’t,” he pleaded, hoarsely. “Do—do you remember anything—any one else?” “Yes, I recollect that there was a man named Jack”—another violent start confirmed Geoffrey’s suspicions—“who was not always good to me, and whom I feared and—you are Jack!”