“My dear boy!” cried Mr. Huntress, under his breath, as he stepped out into the hall beside Geoffrey, cautiously closing the door after him, and then seizing him warmly by both hands, “where on earth have you been, and what has happened to you?”

“The most mysterious and villainous thing that could happen,” replied Geoffrey, with a gloomy face. “I have been kidnaped—carried miles and miles away—and it has taken me hours to return.”

“I suspected as much,” said Mr. Huntress, sternly.

“Then you haven’t attributed my absence to any fault of mine, Uncle August?”

“No, indeed, my boy. I knew better.”

“What made you suspect foul play? But first tell me about Gladys. How has she borne it?” Geoffrey asked, with a wistful glance at the door beyond which his darling lay.

Mr. Huntress shot an anxious look at him.

Clearly he had no suspicion of what had occurred during his absence.

“Gladys has suffered a great deal mentally, but she is sleeping now,” he said, gravely, and wondering how he could ever tell him the terrible truth.

“It must have been dreadful. I can imagine the consternation of everybody when they discovered there would be no wedding,” said Geoffrey, excitedly, while he began to pace restlessly up and down the corridor. “How awkward!—how wretched for my darling!—how uncomfortable for you and Aunt Alice! How did you manage? What could you do or say?”

“Come with me, Geoff, where we can talk without fear of disturbing Gladys, and I will tell you. I have something very strange to tell you, too,” said Mr. Huntress, linking his arm within that of the young man and leading him to an alcove over the front entrance.

“Something strange,” Geoffrey repeated, in a startled tone.

“Very. There has been a most villainous plot connected with this affair.”

From Mr. Huntress’ manner, Geoffrey saw that something of a very grave nature had occurred.

“What is it?” he demanded. “Tell me at once; I can bear anything better than suspense.

“Geoff, there was a wedding!”

“Uncle August!”

“But no one save ourselves and our good doctor, as yet, suspects that there was anything wrong about it.”

“Are you crazy? What do you mean?” cried the young man, breathlessly. “A wedding? That could not be. Gladys could not have been the bride.”

“Gladys was the bride, and every guest believes that you were the groom.”

Geoffrey sank upon a chair, his strength all gone, while a dim suspicion of the horrible truth began to take form in his mind.

“What can you mean?” he gasped, hardly above a whisper, a deadly pallor on his face, an agonized look in his eyes.

“Be calm, my boy,” said his uncle, laying his hand affectionately upon his shoulder. “A dreadful thing has occurred, but it was all a farce—a fraud, rather—which the law will set right in time, and Gladys may yet be yours——”

“Heavens! Uncle August, you are driving me mad! Explain! explain! I cannot bear these enigmas!” cried the poor fellow, springing to his feet in a fearful state of agitation, while a cold perspiration started out all over his face.

Mr. Huntress gently forced him back into his chair and began at once to tell him all that had occurred, from the moment of the departure of the bridal party from the church, up to the present hour.

Geoffrey sat throughout the fearful recital as if he had suddenly been turned to stone, and when at last it was concluded, there were several moments of dreadful silence. He seemed paralyzed, mentally and physically, by the blighting affliction which had overtaken him, and by the bold daring of the enemy who had thus ruined his dearest hopes.

Agony, however, at last broke the spell.

He arose, and stood pale and stern before his uncle.

“Where is he?” he demanded, in an awful voice, although it was barely audible, “where is that treacherous villain who has robbed me of my wife and broken her heart? Tell me, for there must be a terrible settlement between him and me. Where is Everet Mapleson, Uncle August?”

“Here!” responded a defiant voice close beside them, and, wheeling suddenly about at the sound, Geoffrey saw his rival standing between the parted draperies that separated the alcove from the main hall.

“I am here to answer for myself,” he continued, in the same tone, while he looked as pale and resolute as Geoffrey himself, “but first I demand tidings of my—wife.”

That word was like a blow to Geoffrey, who staggered back with a groan of anguish.

But he quickly rallied.

“She is not your wife!” he said, fiercely; “a farce—an act of fraud, could never make her such.”

“You are a trifle premature in your statement,” retorted young Mapleson, with a sneer. “I do not deny that my purpose was accomplished by something of strategy, but it was accomplished, notwithstanding—Gladys Huntress was married to me to-night, and it is simply useless to contest the fact.”

“You may have gone through the marriage service with her; but you personated me, and it was only a mock ceremony. Besides, there were certain preliminaries to be attended to—your intentions made known—your certificate to be properly filled; without these there could have been no legal marriage,” Geoffrey returned, sternly.

Everet Mapleson smiled superciliously.

“All that you mention was most carefully attended to, sir,” he said, with an air of triumph that was simply maddening to his listeners. “The clergyman was duly apprised of my intentions, and received a handsome fee, fifteen minutes before the arrival of the bridal party at the church; the ring had been purchased and carefully marked and now adorns the hand of the bride. Not a single detail has been omitted, I assure you, to make my position and my claim secure.”

“Bah! your audacity is astounding!” said Geoffrey, contemptuously. “It was a barefaced fraud, and the marriage will never stand in law,” persisted Geoffrey, firmly, but oh! with such a sinking agony in his heart.

“Prove it if you can,” retorted Mapleson, arrogantly. “You will not find it an easy thing to do, however, for I shall make a desperate fight to thwart you.”

“Wretch! how dare you attempt such a diabolical plot?” Mr. Huntress demanded.

“I was desperate enough to dare anything, sir,” Everet replied, addressing him with more respect then he had yet shown. “With the love I bear your daughter I could not brook defeat. I vowed that I would win her at any cost, and but for my own indiscretion all this fuss might have been avoided. I was so elated by my success in having the marriage performed that I could not resist taking advantage of my position, and, in attempting to salute my bride after our return to the house, she recognized me. If I had done nothing to attract her especial attention to me, the next two hours might have been tided over well enough, and, once on the way to Boston, en route for Europe, I could have laughed at any outside interference.”

Geoffrey shivered. It was dreadful to have to listen to these revelations, and to realize what a narrow escape Gladys had had, for he knew that if Everet Mapleson had succeeded in deceiving her until the steamer sailed, the shock of her discovery, when alone, and in the power of the audacious scoundrel, might have resulted in her death. Even now they might not be able to secure her release, and she would still have to remain his wife in the sight of the world, but no moral obligation bound her to him, and no power could ever compel her to live with him.

“Could you ever hope to gain any satisfaction in the presence of a wife who would loathe the very sight of you, and whom you knew would never cease to love another?” Mr. Huntress demanded, with curling lips.

“‘Love begets love,’ you know, and I imagine it would not have been such a hopeless task, after all, to win the heart of my wife, with such devotion as I have to offer her,” Everet Mapleson flippantly replied.

Geoffrey’s blood boiled as much at his confident, arrogant tone, as at his words, and almost before he had concluded, he walked straight up to him, seized him by the coat collar, wheeled him about, and marching him to the head of the stairs, pointed below and said, in a stern, authoritative tone, as he released his hold of him:

“Go!”

The young man was so taken aback by this summary act, that he did not even offer to resist until he reached the top stair, when he put out his hand and seized the railing.

He turned, with blazing eyes, and faced Geoffrey, but the expression which he saw upon his face warned him that he had no irresolute spirit to deal with.

“Go!” reiterated Geoffrey, inflexibly, “or I may be tempted beyond my strength and forget one of the ‘thou shalt nots.’”

“I will not!” he returned, as resolutely, all his antagonism aroused. “Do you imagine that, after having struggled so desperately to attain the dearest hopes of my life, I will fly like a coward in the very hour of their achievement?”

But even while he spoke, with all the bravado of which he was master, he shifted uneasily before the terrible look in Geoffrey Huntress’ eye.

Yet it aroused all the passion in his nature; the hot blood mounted to his brow, coursing in an angry tide through all his veins, and before either of his companions could suspect his intention, he swung aloft his right arm to smite his rival to the floor.

But the blow never descended. In his hot-headed anger he forgot the danger of his position, made a misstep, lost his balance, and fell headlong down the long flight of stairs, and then lay silent and motionless, while those two men above looked down upon him with white, startled faces, and hearts throbbing heavily with a sickening fear.

The stairs were carpeted and thickly padded, so that his fall had not been a very noisy one; yet the disturbance was sufficient to bring both Mrs. Huntress and the physician forth from Gladys’ room, in a state of alarm and consternation.

“What is it? Oh, August, what has happened?” cried Mrs. Huntress clinging to her husband.

“That villain played the spy upon us, and in attempting to strike Geoffrey, lost his balance and fell,” Mr. Huntress explained, adding, anxiously: “But pray go back and stay with Gladys; let her know nothing of this, even if she wakes, and we will take care of this fellow.”

He led her back to the young girl’s room, and was greatly relieved to see that she was still sleeping heavily, and had not been conscious of the confusion outside.

The doctor and Geoffrey, meanwhile, had sprung down the stairs, lifted the prostrate man, and carried him into one of the rooms below.

A careful examination convinced Doctor Hoyt that there were no bones broken, the thickly carpeted and padded stairs had doubtless been his salvation in this respect; if he had suffered no internal injury, he had surely escaped in a wonderful manner.

The force and shock of the fall had stunned him, but it was not long before he began to rally and look about him.

As he sat up, rubbing his confused head and trying to realize what had happened to him, Doctor Hoyt glanced curiously from him to Geoffrey.

Both were dressed in evening suits, both were very pale, and their resemblance to each other was something wonderful.

“I do not wonder that the scamp succeeded in his villainous scheme,” the physician said, in an aside, to Mr. Huntress. “I never saw twins that were more of an exact counterpart of each other.

“Well, how do you find yourself now?” he added, in his abrupt, professional way, turning to Everet.

“I believe my shoulder is sprained,” he replied, cringing with pain, as he attempted to move his left arm.

“Any peculiar faintness at the stomach—any internal pain?”

“No, I reckon not; I have hardly come to myself yet, though.”

The doctor made another examination.

“You’ll do,” he said, as he completed it; “there are no bones broken or out of joint, and if there was anything very wrong inside it would begin to show itself. It’s lucky for you that you haven’t a dislocated neck. The next time you want to play pugilist don’t choose a flight of stairs for your battle-ground. Now, if you’ll take my advice, you’ll make tracks for your hotel, give yourself a good rubbing all over with alcohol, and go to bed.”

Everet glanced darkly at the man, and it was on his tongue to tell him that he should do no such thing; but he had been too thoroughly shaken up by his fall to feel in a very defiant state, and he realized, too, that he had received very good counsel, which it might be wise to heed.

Mr. Huntress, after hearing the doctor’s verdict, had slipped quietly from the room, feeling greatly relieved; but he returned in a few moments with several small articles in his hand, which he had picked up in the hall and on the stairs.

There was a small pearl-handled knife, a Russia leather wallet, two or three pieces of gold, and some of silver.

These he handed to the young man.

“They must have slipped from your pockets as you fell,” he said.

Everet received them without even a civil acknowledgment, and replaced them in his pockets.

“Does this belong to you also?” Mr. Huntress asked, holding out a small, glittering, peculiarly shaped object.

“Yes; thanks,” he now had the grace to say, in an eager tone. “It is a pocket piece and an heir-loom; I would not lose it for a great deal,” and he held out his hand for it.

Geoffrey glanced up carelessly at these words; then he stepped quickly forward, his eyes glittering, a strange expression on his face.

“Let me look at that, if you please,” he said.

Mr. Huntress passed it to him, although Everet Mapleson frowned at the act.

If Geoffrey had been pale before he was ghastly now as he received that small object on the palm of his hand.

It was half of a knight-templar’s cross, which had been broken diagonally, and was beautifully enameled and engraven!

He turned it over, holding it nearer the light to examine the back of it.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, with a violent start, while he glanced wonderingly at Everet, who was also regarding him with astonishment.

“Will you tell me how this happens to be in your possession?” Geoffrey asked, meeting his eye.

“Certainly,” the young man returned, with mock politeness; “it belonged to my great-grandfather, who served in the revolution. He became a knight-templar just before enlisting, and was presented with that emblem by the lodge of master masons over which he had served as W. M. The date of the presentation, with my venerable relative’s name, is engraved on the back, as you perceive.”

“What became of the other portion of it?” Geoffrey asked.

“My father has it.”

“Your father has it?”

“Yes,” curtly responded Everet, annoyed by this questioning, yet impelled to reply by something that struck him as peculiar in Geoffrey’s manner. “It was broken by accident,” he added, “after my ancestor’s return from the war, never having left his person during all that time, and he gave one-half to his son—‘as a pocket piece,’ he said—keeping the other himself. At his death his portion was given to my father, who had been named for him, and, when I was of an age to appreciate it, my grandfather’s half was handed down to me.”

“And your father—you are sure—has the other part of it now?” Geoffrey inquired, with pale lips.

“Yes,” Everet said, with a shrug of his shoulders; “we have always regarded them as heir-looms, and have been careful not to lose them.”

“I have a ‘pocket piece’ which I have been ‘careful not to lose’ since it came into my possession,” Geoffrey remarked in a hard, dry tone.

He took something from one of his pockets as he spoke, laid it beside that other piece lying in his palm, and held it out for Everet Mapleson to see.