"He only disappeared. He was carried away, for what object, you can tell." "You are dealing in mysteries. I don't know what you are talking about." Mr. Grey said this, but his troubled look showed that he did not feel as unconcerned as he pretended. Gilbert continued: "The man who carried me off was a clerk in your employ. His name was Jacob Morton." "So he took you to Australia, did he? That's a likely story." "Yes. He was supplied with money by you for the purpose. But he did not like Australia. After awhile he returned to New York, and there I was brought up in the streets, suffering every privation, while you were enjoying the property my father left." "Well, have you got anything more to say? The tale does great credit to your invention." "Three years ago--a little more, perhaps--I saw you in New York. I brushed your boots on the steps of the Astor House." "Better and better. I am expected to recognize a New York bootblack as my nephew!" "It was your fault that I was reduced to be a bootblack." "How happens it that you are not in the same line of business now? Perhaps you are." "Jacob died and left me a few dollars, with which I came out West. Before he died he gave me a written paper, in which he revealed all the plot into which he entered with you." "He gave you a paper, did he?" "Yes. From it I learned that I was born in Cincinnati, and I expected to find you here. But I looked in vain. After awhile I found my father's place of business. I introduced myself to Mr. Ferguson, and he gave me a place in his employ." "On the strength of your ridiculous story, I suppose?" "Because he believed me to be the son of his old employer, John Grey." "I thought Ferguson had more sense than to be duped by such a designing young rascal." "He tells me that I bear a strong resemblance to my father. Look in my face, Uncle James, and tell me whether it is not true." Almost involuntarily James Grey fixed his eyes on the frank, handsome face of his nephew, as he stood intrepidly before him, and he was forced, however reluctantly, to admit to himself that the resemblance was indeed very striking. The case was getting more serious than he had expected. Gilbert had already been recognized as the missing son of John Grey, and that by a man whose testimony would carry great weight. Old Jacob had testified not only to his identity, but to the wrongful compact by which Gilbert had been spirited away to suit his uncle's rapacity. Were this publicly known, his reputation would be destroyed, and he would be deprived of the wealth which he had labored so dishonestly to acquire. Evidently the claim was not to be disposed of so easily as he had at first supposed. "What do you call yourself?" he asked. "Gilbert Grey." "Of course you would take the name of the boy you pretend to be." "Then you don't believe I am Gilbert Grey?" "No, I do not. I believe that Gilbert Grey is dead."