“Mr. Whitney at the hotel sent me to you,” Madelaine declared when they were alone and the soft-eyed old philosopher had dusted a chair and pushed the “spit-box” from sight. “He said you were well acquainted in Paris and could assist me in getting information about a particular person who may, or may not, live here at present. My name is Howland—Allegra Howland—and I come from Springfield, Mass. But my visit here and my business must remain unknown. I’d like you to assure me you’ll keep it confidential before I go further.” The old man stroked his whiskers gently and his blue eyes smiled. “Pat claimed I knowed everybody, did he? Wal, wal! He does manage to tell the truth once in a dog’s age. What is it you want to know, daughter?” “It’s about a man named Forge. Has such a man ever lived here in Paris?” Madelaine caught the startled expression which for a moment chilled the kindly laughter in those lackluster eyes. “Which Forge, daughter? Nat or the old man?” “There are two, then?” “Nat and Johnathan. Nat’s the boy. Johnathan’s the dad. Which you want to know about?” “The one called Nathaniel. He—he—several years ago—he—wrote a poem. It interested me greatly. So much so I thought if I ever happened up this way, I’d stop and compliment the poet.” “Pshaw, now! That’s too bad!” “Why is it too bad?” The expression of trouble deepened on the old hostler’s face. “It’s been quite a spell since Nat writ poetry. His dad sort o’ discouraged it. Nat give it up.” “He’s a young man, then?” Why did the girl’s heart leap? “Let’s see, Nat was ten or so when he come to Paris from over Foxboro way. That was in ninety-nine. Now it’s nineteen-fifteen. That’d make Natie ’bout twenty-six at present, wouldn’t it?—yaas, twenty-six!” “He’s still living here, then?” “Yaas—he’s still livin’ here. Just now, we’re sort o’ sorry to say, he’s livin’ in jail.” “In—_jail_!” It was a diaphragm blow. Madelaine could hear, see, feel, but she could not move. “Why is he in jail?” she asked faintly. “It’s a long story, ma’am. ’Tain’t exactly a pleasant one. You see, Nat come down here from Foxboro and his old man started a shoe place over next to the Red Front Grocery. Him and his woman always had trouble and I guess ‘twa sort o’ hell for the Forge kids. Nat went to school here a piece, and then was pulled out and set to work for Gridley to the tannery. Old Cal took pity on him, the boy bein’ a good sort o’ kid, and put him in the office. Nat writ poems just after leavin’ school. They tickled old Gridley. He got Hod to print ’em in the _Telegraph_.” “Gridley? Why, I know a girl named Gridley! And she came from up around here, too. She went to school with me at Mount Hadley.” “That’s the one! Bernice! Went abroad for a spell, didn’t she? Then married a millionaire feller from somewhere out Chicawgie?” “Yes,” said Madelaine faintly. “Please go on! It was her father, then. And what about Nathaniel?”