“Not at all!” replied Kenrick. “The color is too peculiar to be confounded. Miss Perdita Brown wore a bracelet of that hair the last evening we met her at the St. Charles.” “Again I say, impossible,” quoth Vance. “Something like it perhaps, but not this. How could she have come by it?” “Cousin,” replied Kenrick, “I’m quick to detect slight differences of color, and in this case I’m sure.” Suddenly the Lieutenant noticed the little sleeve-button in Onslow’s hand, and, while the blood mounted to his forehead, turning to him said, “How did you come by _this_, Robert?” “Why do you ask with so much interest?” inquired Vance. “Because that same button I’ve seen worn by Perdita.” “Now I know you’re raving,” said Vance; “for, till now, it hasn’t been out of my pocket since Quattles gave it me.” “Do you mean to say,” exclaimed Kenrick, “that this is the jewel of which you told me; that which belonged to the lost infant of the Pontiac?” “Yes; her nurse identifies it. Undoubtedly it is one of a pair worn by poor little Clara.” “Then,” said Kenrick, with the emphasis of sudden conviction, “Clara and Perdita are one and the same!” Startling as a severe blow was this declaration to Vance. It forced upon his consideration a possibility so new, so strange, so distressing, that he felt crushed by the thought that there was even a chance of its truth. Such an opportunity, thrust, as it were, by Fate under his eyes, had it been allowed to escape him? His emotions were those of a blind man, who being suddenly restored to sight, learns that he has passed by a treasure which another has picked up. He paced the room. He struck his arms out wildly. He pushed up the sleeves of his coat with an objectless energy, and then pulled them down. “O blind mole!” he groaned, “too intent on thy own little burrow to see the stars out-shining! O beast with blinders! looking neither on the right nor on the left, but only straight before thy nose!” And then, as if ashamed of his ranting, he sat down and said: “How strange that this possibility should never have occurred to me! I saw there was a mystery in the poor girl’s fate, and I tried to make her disclose it. Had I only seen her that last day I called, I should have extorted her confidence. Once or twice during our interviews she seemed on the point of telling me something. Then she would check herself, as if from some prompting of delicacy or of caution. To think that I should have been so inconsiderate! To think, too, that I should have been duped by that heartless lay-figure for dressmakers and milliners, Miss Tremaine! Yes! I almost dread to look further lest I should be convinced that Charles is right, and that Clara Berwick and Perdita Brown are one and the same person. If so, the poor girl we all so admired is a slave!” “A slave!” gasped Kenrick, struck to the heart by the cruel word, and turning pale.