"I aver that you are he," said Hugo, after a brief glance of scrutiny, "though I should hardly have known you. I am glad you are come. I was wishing particularly to see you." Fitzgerald looked surprised. He had fancied that he would be an unwelcome, perhaps a dreaded apparition, yet here was the man who he had thought would be disturbed at his appearance actually expressing his pleasure at meeting him. "Then I am glad I came," he said. "I thought perhaps you would be sorry to see me." "So I should have been a week since. Now something has occurred which makes a meeting between us desirable." "Is your uncle dead?" asked the visitor, with eager interest. "No, he is still living," returned Hugo, with a half unconscious sigh of regret. "Walk with me to yonder summer-house. I must have some serious conversation with you." Fitzgerald followed, wondering considerably what Hugo had to say to him, and the two sat down in a summer-house or rustic arbor at some distance from the house, where there were not likely to be any listeners to their speech. When they were seated Hugo asked abruptly, "What did you do with Julian's boy?" Fitzgerald started in some surprise, and perhaps embarrassment, and answered, "You know very well, Mr. Hugo. He died of scarlet fever." "So you reported, and I was quite ready to accept the report without inquiring into particulars. Now I have reason to doubt your statement." "Oh, well, he may have died of something else," said Fitzgerald, shrugging his shoulders. "As long as he died, I suppose it didn't matter to you what was the nature of his disease?" "Not if he were really dead." "You don't doubt that, do you?" "Yes, I do; moreover, I am quite convinced that it is false." "Then you had better keep it to yourself," suggested Fitzgerald with a cunning smile, "since the boy, if alive, would be his grandfather's heir." "But suppose his grandfather suspects he is living?" "That would alter matters. But why should he suspect?" "Fitzgerald, do you know where this boy is?" asked Hugo, searchingly. "I don't even know that he is living. If you do you know more than I do about him." "You know, at least, that he did not die at the time you reported his death." "Well, I don't mind confessing as much as that." "_You played me false!_" said Hugo, with angry bitterness. "Suppose I did?" retorted Fitzgerald, defiantly. "That's better than to kill an innocent boy, isn't it?" "Hush!" exclaimed Hugo, in alarm. "Don't use such words. They might be overheard." "How do you know the boy is alive?" asked Fitzgerald, after a pause. "I saw him myself within a week." "Where?" "At Crampton, in a circus performance; the boy was riding bareback in the ring. He is called on the bills, 'The Boy Wonder,' and is a daring and graceful rider. Julian was always fond of horses." "What name does he bear?" "Robert Rudd." "Are you sure it is Julian's son?" "As sure as I need be. He is the perfect image of my cousin at his age."