It was settled that Everet Mapleson was to accompany Bob Whittaker, the miner, to the mines of New Mexico, and two days after the conversation related in the previous chapter found them on their way thither.

Arriving at their destination, about a week later, they found that what had been a small camp in those early days, when Bob Whittaker had worked for Captain Dale, was now a thriving village, or “city,” as the place was designated in that region, and the miner could hardly realize that it was the same place which had once been so familiar to him.

Everet looked about the town with a great deal of interest, after which he visited the tiny plot where, overshadowed by a venerable cypress tree, all that remained of beautiful Annie Dale rested.

There was no sign of any grave there now; every trace of it had disappeared. There was nothing save a simple head-stone of pure Italian marble, with the single name “Annie” inscribed upon it, standing in the center of the inclosure, to mark the spot where she had been laid.

Two or three varieties of ivy had been planted by some loving hand beside the fence which surrounded it, and a luxuriant growth now almost concealed it from view, and embowered the little plot of ground in a frame-work of living green.

The small house, where the beautiful girl had lived during that short, happy year, and where her child was born—where, as Everet Mapleson firmly believed, Geoffrey Dale Huntress was born—stood near this spot, and was still empty.

No one had ever lived in it since the poor young mother died, one of the older inhabitants of the village told him. It was believed that the same gentleman owned it still, though he had not been seen there for years, and would not allow any one else to occupy it. It seemed as if he deemed the place too sacred to be invaded by strangers, and so had preferred to sacrifice it to desolation and decay.

Everet passed through the small yard, now thickly overgrown with vines and brambles, to the tiny porch, and looked in through the side-lights of the front door.

The doors on each side of the small hall were all open, and the place was bare and forlorn in the extreme, and in strange and gloomy contrast with that luxurious little nest near the old mill at home, that had been Annie Dale’s former home.

He went around the house, peeping in at each window; but there was nothing to be seen save bare floors, and walls from which the rich paper, that had once adorned them, was falling away, while every nook and corner was infested with dust and cobwebs.

He came back again, after a time, to the front porch, where he sat down upon one of the steps, wondering where he should turn next to pick up the thread which seemed to have suddenly broken and vanished from sight again here.

He sat there a long time pondering the mystery—who was the man who had called himself William Dale?—whither had he gone after leaving that place, and which way should he—Everet Mapleson—turn now to hunt him down?

But he could arrive at no definite conclusion; there was only one thing that he could think of to do to satisfy himself regarding the truth of a suspicion that haunted him continually, and that he shrank from with a feeling that was akin to horror; while it might result in nothing save making a fool of himself and becoming an object of ridicule and scorn.

He arose at last, with a sigh of weariness and discouragement to return to the public house where he was staying and to seek his new friend, Bob Whittaker.

But, owing to the cramped position in which he had been sitting, one of his feet had “gone to sleep,” and he found he could not walk a step.

He stamped vigorously, and impatiently, too, for the intense prickling sensation with which circulation began to reassert itself irritated him, when, without the slightest warning, the step on which he was standing gave way and he was unceremoniously precipitated into the rank grass and among the brambles which grew all about it.

He picked himself up, after giving vent to a somewhat unrefined expression of annoyance, rescued his hat, which had lodged in a prickly cactus nearby, and then turned to see how much damage he had done.

The step was a complete wreck, the top board being split entirely across, while the rotten supports beneath were wholly demolished, and lay in a crumbled heap on the ground.

He gave the mass a kick with his foot, scattering it right and left, when suddenly a gleam of light from something among it, flashed into his eye.

He stooped to see what had caused it, when, to his intense surprise, he found a small ring, the gold all blackened and tarnished, but with a beautiful diamond, clear and brilliant as a drop of dew in the sunlight, set in its delicate crown.

“Well, I imagine I have found a treasure now,” Everet exclaimed, eagerly, as he turned it over and over to examine it more closely.

He saw that there was some inscription upon its inner surface, but it was so blackened with age and so filled with dirt that he could not make it out.

“Aha!” he cried, exultantly, “I’ll wager almost anything that I have at last found the end of the broken thread that will unravel the mystery.”

He sat down again upon the upper step of the porch, deliberately drew a cigar from his pocket, lighted it, and began to smoke.

The first ashes that he detached from it he carefully saved upon a piece of wood, and, using his handkerchief, began to polish the discolored ring with them.

It was not long before his efforts were rewarded—the inner surface of the ring began to take on its original color and the inscription to stand out more plainly.

“It is evidently an engagement-ring with only some initials and a date engraven upon it,” the young man murmured, as he held it up to inspect it more closely.

The next instant he lifted his head with an air of triumph, though his face was as white as a sheet.

“It is the key to the whole mystery,” he said. “This will take me straight to the heart of the secret.”

While Everet Mapleson was following the trail of the mystery that possessed such a power of fascination over him, August Huntress and his family were luxuriating at Saratoga.

Mr. Huntress had obstinately insisted that Geoffrey should have a long holiday after the close application of the last three years, although the young man himself would have much preferred, and was very eager to begin the real business of his life at once.

“It is time that I was at work for myself,” he had pleaded, “and if you will only use your influence, Uncle August, to help me into some good position, my conscience would be easier.”

“Your conscience needn’t trouble you, and I won’t hear a word about business for three months to come,” replied his friend, decisively. “You’ve given yourself no rest during all your college course, and now, my boy, I’m determined that we shall all have a jolly good time together to celebrate your own and Gladys’ release from school-life.”

So, by the middle of July, they were settled for the summer in pleasant rooms at the Grand Union, and were as happy and united a party as ever visited that resort of gayety and fashion.

Gladys was very much admired from the first; her beauty and charming manners winning her legions of friends.

But none of them were to be compared to Geoffrey, and the lovers managed to be much by themselves, in spite of the fact that “that delightful Miss Huntress was such a favorite with everybody.”

One morning they were leisurely strolling through one of the shady avenues of Congress Park, when they saw a distinguished-looking gentleman advancing toward them.

He did not appear to notice them, however, until he was almost upon them, when, suddenly looking up, he gave a violent start of surprise; then he advanced, with an eager smile and extended hand, exclaiming:

“Why, Everet Mapleson! Where on earth did you drop from? I should as soon have thought of seeing the Emperor of Russia as yourself this morning.”

Geoffrey lifted his hat and bowed politely to the speaker, as he replied:

“You have made a slight mistake, sir; I am not Everet Mapleson, although this is not the first time that I have been taken for him.”

“Nonsense; don’t try to play such a joke on me—I’ve known you too many years for you to palm yourself off as any one else,” returned the gentleman, laughingly, while he shot an amused glance at the young man’s companion, as if he suspected that she was the cause of his wishing to remain incog.

“I assure you, sir, I am speaking the truth. I am not Everet Mapleson,” Geoffrey reiterated.

The stranger’s face grew suddenly overcast.

“Then who in thunder are you?” he demanded, in sharp, excited accents.

“My name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress, at your service, sir,” Geoffrey responded, courteously, although he had flushed hotly at the curt question.

“Geoffrey Dale! Good heavens!” cried the man, shrinking back as if he had been dealt a violent blow, and growing deathly pale.

Geoffrey himself turned white at this.

He was ever on the alert to gain some knowledge of his parentage, and this man’s strange manner made him think that perhaps he might know something of his early history.

“Yes, sir; I perceive that the name affects you strangely. Did you ever hear it before?” he asked, earnestly, searching the stranger’s face.

“Ah—years ago—a friend—excuse me—I am very much overcome,” the man murmured, incoherently, as he staggered to a rustic bench near by, where, sinking upon it and bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned aloud.

Geoffrey stood transfixed, his face plainly betraying anxiety, dread, and perplexity, while he was inwardly so excited over this strange meeting that Gladys, as she leaned upon his arm, could feel him trembling in every limb.

“Will you explain yourself, sir?” Geoffrey said at length, and feeling that the silence and mystery were becoming intolerable. “Do you know aught of me—of any person named Dale?”

The gentleman shivered, as if the question had jarred upon some sensitive chord.

“Yes,” he answered, after a moment of hesitation, while he lifted a haggard face to his questioner; “years ago I had a friend by that name; but—but——”

“Will you relate the history of that friend to me?” Geoffrey asked, with white lips, and speaking with an effort.

Something seemed to tell him that he was standing on the very threshold of the revelation which he had longed for so many years.

Again the stranger shrank as if he had been smitten.

“Why do you ask me that?” be huskily demanded.

“Because,” Geoffrey returned, with grave earnestness, “there is a mystery connected with my own life—because, when I was a child I was abandoned in the most cruel manner, and but for the goodness of the man who found me an outcast in the streets of New York——”

“New York! How came you there?” interrupted his listener, amazed.

“That is more than I can tell you, sir. This gentleman found me in a state of imbecility, took me to his home, cared for me until I was restored to my right mind, and then adopted and educated me as his own son; but for him I should still have been an imbecile, and more pitiable than the lowest paupers that wander about the streets of that city.”

“What! what is this that you are telling me? An imbecile! I cannot understand,” cried the man, looking bewildered.

“I do not know how I came to be in such a state,” Geoffrey continued; “the physicians said it was caused by some injury while I was very young, so my life before that time has remained a mystery to myself and those who have befriended me. If you can throw any light upon it, sir, I entreat you to do so.”

The man quickly arose from his seat at this appeal, but staggered like a person who had been drinking deeply, and seemed like one who had sustained a terrible mental shock.

“I cannot tell you anything now,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I cannot think; I must have time to recover myself.”

“I do not understand your excessive emotion, sir. I do not understand your desire to avoid explaining your very strange words and manner,” Geoffrey interposed, looking both pained and anxious; “but I am terribly in earnest about this matter, and if you know anything about my family or antecedents, I beg that you will not keep me in suspense.”

“Some other time I will talk with you again,” murmured the stranger, turning aside, and striving to keep his eyes averted.

“When? name any place and hour, and I will come to you,” said Geoffrey, eagerly.

The man thought a moment, then said:

“Come to me at five o’clock this afternoon, at the ‘United States,’ and inquire for room forty-five.”

He turned abruptly away, and would have passed on, but Geoffrey detained him.

“What is your name, please?” he asked.

“That you shall know when we meet again,” was the evasive reply.

“Tell me one thing,” pleaded the young man, greatly agitated; “did this—friend of yours, have a son bearing the name that I have given you?”

A groan of pain escaped the man.

“Come to me at five this afternoon. I am not fit to talk more with you now,” was the tremulous reply, and the man moved weakly away, seeming more like a person eighty years of age than like the upright, distinguished-looking individual of fifty, whom the young couple had met a few moments before.