“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.’