“Well, well, well! wonders will never cease! It’s a strangely romantic tale, young man. But how about your own father?” questioned the farmer. “That is a mystery which I came here to try to solve,” Geoffrey returned, looking troubled, for he seemed to be no nearer the solution than ever. “All that I really know about my father is that he was called Captain William Dale, and that he at one time owned shares in some of the mines of New Mexico, where my mother died. I have been there trying to gain some trace of him, but without success. Then I came on here, hoping to learn something of him through people who had known the Henlys. I thought it probable that he would come here, sometime, to see me, as he had previously been in the habit of doing, and, finding that I had disappeared, would leave his address so that he could be informed if anything was learned of my fate.” “He has been here,” the farmer replied; “he came only about two months after Mrs. Henly left. I saw him and conversed with him. He appeared to be overwhelmed with grief upon learning of your strange disappearance. He instituted inquiries, offering a reward of five thousand dollars for your recovery, living, or one thousand for positive proof of your death, and under these circumstances I have often wondered why some clew to your fate was not ascertained.” Geoffrey did not think it strange. He knew that no one would have recognized in the poor little imbecile whom Jack Henly had cared for, the bright, happy child who had been Margery’s joy and pride. He was touched, too, by the evidence of his father’s interest in and love for him, and yet it seemed inexplicable; for, if the man whom he had met at Saratoga was his father, and he was anxious to find him, as the farmer said, why should he have avoided him as he had done. “But did he leave no address?” he eagerly questioned. “There was something a little queer about that,” said the farmer, “for he did not give any, really. I asked him where a communication would reach him, and he replied that anything directed simply to Lock Box 43, Santa Fe, would be all that was necessary.” Geoffrey’s face fell at this. He was terribly disappointed, for he had confidently expected that he would find something tangible through this man, by which he could trace Captain William Dale. “Lock Box 43, Santa Fe,” he repeated, thoughtfully, “and that was all?” “That was all; but perhaps the man didn’t want his name known all over the country, in connection with this tragedy here,” suggested his host. “That is so,” Geoffrey returned, brightening, but he said to himself that he would yet know who had held that post-office box in Santa Fe twenty years ago, if it was in the power of man to discover it. “Has he ever been here since?” he asked, after a pause. “Yes, twice; and the last time he remarked, ‘I shall never see the child again—I believe he is dead.’” “What was the date of his last visit?”