Geoffrey's victory;

“Who can he be? How strangely he acts,” Gladys said, as she gazed after the retreating form. “One would almost believe he has some personal connection with your history, he was so agitated on learning your name.”

“I am sure that he has, Gladys; I believe that man is my father!” Geoffrey replied, with quivering lips.

“Oh, Geoff!”

“I do, dear; and I fear, too, that there is some miserable secret connected with my early life.”

“Do not think that,” the beautiful girl pleaded; “I will not believe it without the strongest proof; and even if it should be so, the fact cannot harm you.”

“Gladys,” Geoffrey said, in a stern, repressed tone, while his face was dreadful to look upon in its ghastliness, “if there is sin connected with my life—if I find that my birthright is one of shame—I can never ask you to share it.”

Gladys clasped both hands closely about her lover’s arm.

“Geoffrey, surely you will not ruin both our lives by any such rash decision?” she pleaded, lifting her troubled face to his. “It is you whom I love, not an illustrious pedigree. As far as my future with you is concerned, I care not who or what your parents may have been. Do not let anything of that nature come between us; it is false pride, and unworthy of you.”

The young man regarded her with exceeding tenderness, but he was still greatly disturbed by his recent interview with the stranger, and could not readily regain his composure.

He believed that he was on the verge of an important discovery, and he was at the same time impressed that it would only bring him shame and sorrow.

“Gladys, would you not shrink from marrying a man whose mother had never been—a wife?” he asked, a hot flush mounting to his brow.

“I could never shrink from you, Geoffrey, and I would not accept the proudest position in the land in exchange for your love. I might deeply regret such a circumstance, on your account; but, dear, my affection for you is far too strong to be weakened by a mere accident of birth. Let us put all such dismal thoughts away from our minds. I will not believe that dishonor has ever touched you or yours,” Gladys concluded, looking up with a fond smile.

“Dear little comforter,” murmured the young man, trying to return it, though it was but the ghost of one.

“Do not go near that man, Geoff,” Gladys continued. “Let us be happy as we are, and not trouble ourselves about the past.”

The poor fellow sighed, as if it would be a great relief to let it go, to consign it to oblivion, but the anxious look did not leave his face.

“I cannot, Gladys,” he said, with pale, compressed lips. “I shall never rest until all the dark mystery of my past life is explained. I must keep my appointment with that man this afternoon, and I will not leave him until I have wrung from him every scrap of information that he may possess regarding me and mine, and if——”

“Geoff, what?” cried the young girl, breathlessly, alarmed by his unusual tone, and the look upon his face.

“If I find that that man is my father, and that he wronged my mother, he shall have reason to regret both those facts for the remainder of his life,” was the stern reply.

“Geoffrey, surely you will do nothing to compromise yourself?” Gladys pleaded, anxiously.

“No, dear, for your sake as well as my own, I will do nothing to make myself disagreeably conspicuous. But he will not forget if I find my suspicions are true. You will say nothing to Uncle August or Aunt Alice regarding this encounter, please, until after I have seen him.”

“No, certainly not, if you prefer I should not tell them,” Gladys readily promised.

They turned to retrace their way to the hotel, both too much disturbed by the occurrence of the morning and by forebodings regarding the afternoon’s appointment, to care to prolong their stroll.

They parted at the ladies entrance, Gladys going up stairs to her mother’s apartments, where she tried to busy herself with some fancy work until lunch time, although her heart was in a continual flutter of apprehension and miserable suspense.

Geoffrey shut himself up in his own room, alone, for a season, but was too wretched to remain there inactive, and soon went out again.

When the family went down to luncheon he was still absent, and his seat vacant.

This was such an unprecedented occurrence that Mr. Huntress left the table to ascertain the reason.

He soon returned with the information that Geoffrey had gone out, but had left word with the clerk, in case inquiries should be made for him, that he might not be back for several hours.

Mrs. Huntress glanced at Gladys as her husband made this report, but she gave no sign of either surprise or disappointment. She had noticed an unusual reserve and quietness about her, ever since her return from her walk, and a suspicion crossed her mind that perhaps there might be some misunderstanding or lover’s quarrel, that had caused this unwonted break in the family party.

She kept her suspicions to herself, however, resolving to await further developments.

It was after six o’clock when Geoffrey returned. Gladys was watching for him, at one end of the veranda, and sprang from the chair to go to meet him, as he came up the steps and then stopped short as she caught sight of his face.

It was as colorless as marble, and there was a look in his eye that actually made her tremble.

He did not speak, or even smile, as he came up to her, but quietly drew her hand through his arm, led her within the house, and to a small reception-room, carefully shutting the door behind them.

Then he turned again and faced her.

“Gladys,” he said, in a hollow, unnatural tone, “it is as I feared——”

“Geoffrey!” she cried, in a shocked voice, all her own bright color fading.

“The worst is true,” he concluded, not heeding her interruption.

“Have you seen him?—did he tell you so?” she asked.

“No, I have not seen him.”

“Then how do you know?”

“He has fled.”

“Fled?”

“Yes. I went to the ‘United States’ at five this afternoon. I called a servant to show me the way to room number forty-five, and was told that the gentleman who had occupied it left at twelve to-day.”

“How very strange!” said Gladys, astonished.

“No, it is not strange,” Geoffrey returned, bitterly; “the man is a miserable coward, and he dare not meet me; his history is doubtless one of shame and wrong—he knew that I would force it from him, and he fears to remain and confess it. But, Gladys, I shall find him yet—some day I will compel him to face me and own the truth. I will hunt him down! he shall not escape me!”

“Oh, Geoffrey, pray do not let it trouble you so—there may have been some other reason for his going,” said the young girl, laying her hand sympathetically on his arm.

“No—I tell you he was afraid to meet me, and his guilt is evident in his flight; he never would have run away like this, if there had been no guilty secret in his life which he was anxious to conceal from me.”

“Did you learn his name?” Gladys inquired.

A deep flush arose to Geoffrey’s brow, and he gave a start of annoyance.

“No,” he said, “I was so wretched and angry that I never thought to ask his name. When the servant told me he was gone, I turned on my heel and walked out of the house and have been walking ever since, trying to recover my composure.”

“That was an oversight, dear,” said his betrothed, gently; “you should have secured his name and address.”

“You are right; I will go back immediately and ascertain it.”

“Oh, Geoffrey, perhaps it will be better for you to leave it all just here,” the fair girl urged. “‘Where ignorance is bliss’—you know the rest.”

“But I know too much already; I can never rest until I sift this matter to the very bottom. Could you, darling? If you were not Uncle August’s own child, and knew there was some mystery connected with your birth, would you be satisfied until you knew the truth?”

“No, Geoff, I don’t believe I should,” Gladys replied, thoughtfully, “and—I know that such a discovery would make me very unhappy,” she concluded, with starting tears.

Geoffrey stooped and kissed her fondly, then turned abruptly and left the room.

The young girl sighed wearily as she slowly followed him.

“I am afraid there is trouble in store for him, for my heart is heavy with forebodings,” she murmured.

Half an hour later, Geoffrey returned, and there was now a savage glitter in his eyes, although his face was pale and full of pain.

He found Gladys watching for him as before.

He went up behind her chair, leaned down, and whispered in her ear:

“The man’s name is—William Dale, and he registered from Fort Union, New Mexico.”

Gladys looked around, a startled expression on her face.

“William Dale!” she repeated; “then he must be——”

“My father, and—a parent to be proud of, surely,” the young man interposed, with exceeding bitterness. “Oh, Gladys!” he continued, in an agonized whisper, “I feel as if I should go mad—I can bear anything better than dishonor.”

Gladys turned and laid her soft cheek for an instant against the hand that was resting on the back of her chair.

The involuntary and sympathetic caress comforted him more than any words could have done, for it seemed to say, no matter what lay away back among those early years before she knew him, nothing could change her love for him, and he would always be the same to her.

“I wish I could know the story of my mother’s life,” Geoffrey continued, with a sigh, while a moisture gathered in his eyes. “Poor woman! I am afraid that her fate must have been a sorrowful one. Darling, I believe I shall go to New Mexico and see what I can learn about this man who registered from Fort Union.”

“Oh, Geoff, I fear it will only be chasing a ‘will-o’-the-whisp!’” Gladys said, looking distressed.

“I cannot help it. I must go. I shall be wretched and good for nothing until I learn all there is to know. I am going now to tell Uncle August about it.”

He sought Mr. Huntress, and laid the whole matter before him, making known his desire, too, to go to New Mexico to see if he could gain any further clew.

Mr. Huntress sympathized heartily with him, and favored the project. He could well understand how restless and miserable Geoffrey would be until he had used every possible means to discover his parentage.

So he did all that he could to hasten and facilitate his departure, and even offered to accompany him; but Geoffrey frankly told him that he preferred to go alone.

He felt that if he must learn that any stigma rested on his birth, he could not bear to have any one, not even his kind friend, witness the struggle that must come with the knowledge. He could fight it best by himself.

He left the next day but one, but owing to delays both by rail and coach, he did not reach Fort Union until ten days later.

He made inquiries here for a man named William Dale, but for several days could gain no intelligence whatever regarding such a person.

At last he fell in with an old miner, by the merest accident, who had known a man by that name many years previous, and who directed him to that mining village already described.

Thither Geoffrey hastened at once, reaching it one evening just at sundown, and only a week after Everet Mapleson’s visit to the same place.

Here he learned something of Annie Dale’s story, for Everet’s inquiries and interest in the same person had revived memories regarding that sad romance, and it had become a common theme since.

Annie Dale’s grave, and the house where she had lived, were pointed out to Geoffrey, and he went by himself to visit them.

He came to the dismantled home first, and walked round and round it, as Everet Mapleson had done, peering in through the windows, noting the position of the rooms, and wondering if he should ever know if this had really been the home of his mother, and under what circumstances she had lived there; whether she had been a loved and honored wife, or whether her early death had been caused by some secret sorrow that had broken her heart.

He knew there had been another visitor there before him—although he had been told nothing regarding the stranger’s visit of the week previous—for the broken step and the trampled grass gave ample evidence of that fact.

He wondered if it could have been the man who had so suddenly fled from Saratoga after meeting him, who had, perhaps, been driven there by sorrow and remorse to look once more upon the ruin he had wrought.

He grew more and more fearful that the story of his birth must be a sorrowful one, for it was evident that no one bearing the name of William Dale had ever resided in Fort Union.

He would not have been able to trace the man beyond that point at all, but for his accidental meeting with the old miner, who had worked in the mines where he had owned an interest, and thus been able to direct him to this remote village.

If William Dale had never lived at Fort Union, why had he registered from that place? If he was now living at Fort Union, and his name was not William Dale, why had he used that address again after the lapse of so many years?

There was something very mysterious about the whole matter, and it began to seem like a hopeless puzzle to the young man.

He finally left the house and bent his steps toward that small inclosure where, in the gathering dusk, he could just see the pure white head-stone gleaming among the vines that grew all around it.

He entered the place and approached the spot, noting that here, too, there were signs of a recent visitor, and knelt down to read the name that had been inscribed upon the spotless marble.

“Annie,” he read, and the single name sent a thrill through every fiber of his being.

Here, too, there seemed evidence that there was some sad tale of wrong and suffering connected with the life of the girl who had been buried there, for had she been a wife and with nothing to conceal, would not a fond husband have wished the name that he had given her also chiseled there?

“Oh, if I could only know!” Geoffrey groaned within himself, as he bowed his head upon the stone, feeling completely baffled, and as if all trace must end here. “Was this woman my mother? She was something to William Dale, and William Dale is something to me, or he would never have betrayed so much emotion upon meeting me, and then fled from me. Was she his lawful wife? Am I her child, and had I honorable birth?

“Good heavens!” he added, aloud, “there must be some way to solve these questions. Oh, if the Fates would but guide me to some one who could tell me how to unravel this mystery!”

“Ahem! Well, youngster, I shouldn’t wonder if I was yer man. What’ll ye give to hear a prettier love-story than ever was writ?”