“Talk of ‘Japhet in search of his father!’ why, he wasn’t in it at all compared with me. At last came another clew; among the letters forwarded in a bunch from home was a line in the same precious hand. See, here it is.”
He takes out from a note-book a slip of paper; the writing is elegant and feminine.
She reads:
“January 12th. Just twenty years to-day. Oh! Heaven! teach me to kiss the rod.”
No signature, only a mark like a tear-drop.
“Now you realize my position; you can, in a measure, understand the peculiar mingling of love, reverence, and pity with which I think of this mother, and how the thought of her enters into every act of mine.”
“Yes, yes, I do indeed,” sympathetically.
“I have sworn to find her—to let her know there is one who loves the poor exile. Let my father rage if he will, my heart burns to meet her. I will proceed. This letter was postmarked Malta, here at Valetta.”
“But you did not mention—”
“I knew the steamer would stop a few hours at least, and thought that might be enough in which to learn the truth. Strange things have happened since we landed. I have learned several facts which astound me.
“You saw a man come in and draw me aside? That man controls the destinies of these people of Valetta, even as a chief of police would in our cities. When first I landed I sought the presence of Luther Keene—”
“There—your mention of his name revives my recollection like a flash. Now I know just when and where I met that man,” she says.
“He promised to assist me, for a consideration, of course, and was especially delighted at the chance to prove that even out here in Malta there might be a second Vidocq.
“In his first report he told me the party I sought had been in Valetta only recently, but he believed she was now gone.
“The man told me just now where Blanche Austin staid during her residence here, at a house on the Strada Mezzodi, and I shall go as soon as I leave you, to make inquiries there. If you are interested in my story, you might, perhaps, care to hear what news I may pick up on my visit to this house, which has so recently covered my mother.”
“Indeed, I am more than interested in your story, and anxious to learn how you succeed. Would you know your mother if you should meet her to-day?” she asks, mentally wondering why he has taken her into his confidence.
“I believe so. A son’s loving eyes would do much toward solving the problem.”
“But your memory of her must be exceedingly hazy, to say the least.”
“That is true; but I have another clew. Once, when a boy, I was rummaging through some old papers in an antique secretary which I found in the attic, when I ran across an ivory miniature that had been overlooked.
“Upon it was painted a girl’s face; my heart told me who it was, and underneath I found the words ‘Blanche Austin at eighteen.’