It can be readily believed that this arouses the deepest interest in the young student of medicine.  The desire to find his mother has been the one aim of his life; it has carried him over many a dark crisis, and has become stronger with the passage of years.

Now he is getting daily, hourly, nearer the object of his solicitude, and his anticipation so long and fondly cherished, bids fair to be a realization.

“How I envy you, Lady Ruth.  You have seen her, pressed her hand.  It makes you seem less a stranger to me to think that my mother was able to do you a service.”

“I am positive it was she.  Wait—­perhaps I can prove it.  I noticed she had a medallion secured around her neck with a guard, and once I was enabled to see the face upon it.  It was that of a man.”

“Oh! describe it if you can.”

“The gentleman, I should judge, was about twenty-three.  He wore a mustache and small side whiskers.  I judged he was English.  His hair was light and inclined to be curly.”

John Craig smiles.

“Ah! the last doubt has been swept away.”

“You recognize this picture, then?”

“Yes; your description answers for my father when he was a young man.  I have not the slightest doubt that it was the one I seek who rendered you this service.  And she a Sister of Charity!  I don’t understand.”

“Your story has interested me deeply, doctor.  You have my most sincere wishes for success; and if I can in any way assist you, don’t hesitate to call upon me.”

“I believe you mean every word of it, and from my heart I thank you.  I must leave you now, to seek the house in the Strada Mezzodi—­the house that may reveal much or little.”

At this moment the others enter; fortune has been kind to allow the conversation to reach its legitimate end, and John, with a pleasant word for Aunt Gwen and her husband, and only a peculiar look for the Briton, hurries out.

In five minutes more he comes down stairs, ready for the street.  To his surprise he is stopped near the door by some one he knows—­Philander Sharpe, wearing a ridiculous helmet hat, as becomes a traveler.

“Pardon me, but I’m in a hurry,” he says, as the other plucks his sleeve.

“Oh! yes; but I’m going with you, Chicago,” pipes the little professor, shutting one eye and nodding in a very knowing manner.

“But I’m not off to paint the town red,” says John, believing the other thinks it is his intention to see the sights of Malta’s capital by night—­“I have an engagement.”

“In the Strada Mezzodi; eh?”

“Thunder; how did you guess it?” ejaculates the man of medicine, astonished beyond measure.

“I am not a guesser.  I know what I know, and a dused sight more than some people think, especially my beloved wife, Gwendolin.”

“What do you know—­come to the point?”

“First, all about your past, and the trouble in the Craig family.”