“Estelle,” she repeated, searching his face keenly; “that might have been her other name. Didn’t she have bright, beautiful brown hair, and a sweet, gentle way with her?” “No; her hair is as black as a raven’s wing, and no one would ever think of describing her as ‘sweet and gentle,’” the young Southerner replied, with a smile, as a vision of the magnificent woman who reigned in his home arose before him, “but proud and imperious. She is like some beautiful queen.” “And is she your own mother?” questioned the flower vender, eagerly. “Yes, my own mother, and I am her only child.” “Well, well, it is _very_ strange,” sighed the poor woman, tears of disappointment again filling her eyes. “I was so sure that I had found my boy at last. I’ve been hunting for him these eighteen years. It isn’t much wonder that I mistook you, though, for you couldn’t be more like him if you were his twin; and yet he mayn’t look like you at all, now that he’s grown up. Ah, Jack, peace to your soul if you’ve gone the way of all the earth, but where under heaven did you leave the child?” She dropped her head upon her breast and kept on with her muttering, apparently convinced at last that she had made a mistake. Everet Mapleson stood irresolute a moment, half tempted to tell her where she could find Geoffrey, and yet obstinately averse to doing anything for one whom he so disliked. He was in a hurry, too, for it was already past the time that he had appointed to meet young Vandewater, and he was unwilling to be detained any longer to answer the questions of a garrulous old woman, so he went unheeded on his way. All the way to the club-house she was in his thoughts. Without doubt, he reasoned, she had been a servant in the Huntress family, and probably after Geoffrey’s adoption by his uncle she had lost track of her charge, perhaps by a change of residence on her part or his. He could not seem to understand her reference to the dreadful blow that Jack had given the boy, nor to his running away with him afterward and leaving his wife, as he evidently believed, dead. The more he thought it over the more strange it appeared, and the more interested he became regarding the matter. Possibly there might be something connected with Geoffrey Huntress’ history which he might be able to use against him in his future scheming. “I will go back by and by and question her some more,” he muttered, as he reached the club-house, ran up the steps, and entered the elegant vestibule. He did not return that day, however, but the next he made it in his way to pass the spot where Margery had had her flower-stand the previous morning. But she was no longer there. Flowers, stand, and vender had all disappeared, and although Everet sought her several times after that he did not see her again during his stay in the city.