Mr. Grey was breakfasting in that leisurely, luxurious kind of way which he enjoyed so thoroughly. His morning papers were on the table beside him. He had glanced them through, and read every word in them about poor Laura’s property, which was now secured to her and her heirs forever. He had succeeded in making his claim clear, and Laura and her heirs were richer by some thirty thousand dollars than they were when last the crazy woman was in the city. To a man with nearly half a million thirty thousand dollars were not so very much; but Mr. Grey was glad to get it, and had decided that it should be invested for Alice, just as his breakfast appeared, and in dispatching that, he forgot the city lots and houses, and the days when he had gone so often to one of them, now a long time torn down to make room for a large and handsome block. He had finished his first cup of coffee, and was waiting for his second, when a hand was laid familiarly upon his shoulder, and Guy Seymour’s handsome face confronted him. “Why, Guy, how you frightened me!” he said. “Where did you come from? Is anything the matter at home? Is it Alice?” She was nearest his heart, and he asked for her first, while his cheek paled for a moment; but Guy quickly reassured him. There was nothing the matter with Alice; nothing the matter with any one, he said. He had come on business, and as soon as Mr. Grey was through with his breakfast he would like to see him alone. Then Mr. Grey proceeded with his coffee and mutton chop, and omelette and hot cakes, and Guy grew terribly impatient and nervous with waiting. Mr. Grey’s appetite was satisfied at last, and he invited Guy to his room and asked what he could do for him. Guy had the story at his tongue’s end. He had repeated it to himself several times so as to be sure and make himself understood, and after half an hour or so he _was_ understood, and Mr. Grey knew why he was there, and who was with him. To say that he was startled would convey but a faint idea of the effect Guy’s story had upon him. Laura’s ravings about “the one that was dead and the one that was not,” had come back to him with a new meaning and helped to prove the _twin_ theory correct, and he was struck dumb with amazement, and tried in vain to speak as some question he wished to ask presented itself to his mind. He could not speak, his tongue was so thick and lay so heavy in his mouth, while the blood rushed in such torrents to his head and face that he plucked at his cravat as if to tear it off, so he could breath more freely, and made a motion toward the window for air.