“Yes,” he said, “I do know the story from beginning to end. I know that a girl named Annie Dale disappeared very mysteriously from Richmond more than twenty years ago; that she fled to her lover, who met her at Kansas City, and then took her to that mining village among the mountains of New Mexico, where she lived with him as his mistress, though nominally as his wife, until she died.” “That man was William Mapleson, your father?” said Geoffrey, in a tone that was terrible from its calmness. “That man was William Mapleson, my father,” repeated Everet, defiantly, though the blood mounted hotly to his brow as he said it, showing that he was not yet quite hardened enough not to feel something of shame over the confession. “Did _he_ give you the history of that exceedingly _honorable_ portion of his life?” Geoffrey asked, with curling lips. “No; I found it out for myself. I have never felt at ease with your resemblance to me: it has haunted me day and night,” Everet replied. “A slight circumstance occurred to arouse my suspicions that there _might_ be some natural cause for it. I began to trace the mystery, and followed it up until I learned the truth—that you were Annie Dale’s child, and she was—what I have already told you. I suppose, in point of fact, that we _are_, in a certain way, related to each other,” he went on, with a disagreeable shrug. “If, _under the circumstances_, you can derive any comfort from it, much good may it do you.” Geoffrey grew crimson, and, for a moment, his eyes blazed wrathfully at this taunt. “Was Mr. William Mapleson at Saratoga during any portion of last summer?” he asked, struggling for self-control. “I believe he ran up there for a few days when he came North to join my mother at Newport,” Everet returned, wondering what the question could have to do with the point under discussion. Geoffrey glanced significantly at Mr. Huntress. “What was his object in registering there as William Dale?” he asked. Everet looked up, astonished. “He did not,” he said, skeptically. “He did. I met him one morning in Congress Park. He accosted me by your name, believing me to be yourself, and then became greatly agitated upon being informed of his mistake and told who I was. My suspicions were aroused, for I have always been on the alert to discover my parentage, and I begged an interview with him. He appointed one for five o’clock at his room, number forty-five, at the United States Hotel. I was punctual, but when I inquired for the gentleman who occupied room forty-five, I was told that he had left at noon. I examined the register, and found his name entered as ‘William Dale, from Santa Fe. New Mexico.’” “Then it must have been some one else,” Everet affirmed, perplexed over the affair, and yet instinctively feeling that his father must have been concerned in it, though just how he was at a loss to imagine.