Basil Wentworth returned home at the time set. He had been accustomed to occupy a room at the house of his uncle, and he repaired there at once.

When the first greetings were over, he said, “I am anxious to meet Maria and Edwin.”

“I have just received a note from the Fifth Avenue Hotel which I will show you. It should have reached me on Saturday.”

It ran thus:

“Dear Uncle:

“I have just received news from England that obliges me to sail thither at once with Edwin. I am disappointed, as it will prevent my meeting Basil, who you told me is expected on Monday. Please remember me kindly to him, and tell him that I may be able to return to America in a few months, in which case I shall of course see him. I should be very lonely if it were not for Edwin, though I may place him at school. I am glad to say that he has fully recovered from his illness, and as you can testify from seeing him, he is now the picture of health.

“I will write you from England.

“Your affectionate niece,

“Maria Harcourt.”

Basil read this letter attentively.

“Maria’s departure seems very sudden,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Did she mention any affairs that were likely to call her away?”

“No.”

“How often did you see Edwin?”

“She brought him here once. Then I invited them both to dinner, but Maria only came. She said Edwin had a headache.”

“What were your impressions of the boy?”

“He was a fine, attractive lad.”

“And looked in perfect health?”

“I never saw a healthier-looking boy.”

“I am greatly disappointed at not meeting him. It is strange that we should have heard of his death,” said Basil thoughtfully. “Did Maria speak of his sickness?”

“Yes, she said he was very ill, but after his recovery had been better than ever before.” “I’m truly glad to hear it.”

“You are a good man, Basil. The boy’s death would increase your income by five thousand dollars.”

“I would rather live on one thousand than have that young life cut off.”

“I believe you, Basil.”

“Maria couldn’t have been in New York more than a week.”

“About a week, I should think.”

“By the way, I wonder what has become of the Mordaunts? Considering the fact that they are so nearly related to us, we ought to know more about them.”

“I have no idea where they are. As you ascertained they have left their western home, but where they have gone I cannot imagine.”

“If Edwin Harcourt had really died, it would have been necessary to find them, as they would have been joint heirs with me of my young cousin’s property. I hope at least they are comfortable.”

“I think Mr. Mordaunt left a little property.”

Some weeks later when Basil came home in the afternoon, his uncle said:

“Well, I have had a letter from Maria.”

“Indeed! what did she say?” “You can read the letter. There’s one passage that will surprise you.”

It was this:

“And now, Uncle Henry, I have great news to tell you. Where do you think Edwin is? He is the guest of the Earl of Bentley, and staying at his country house, Bentley Hall. You must know that the Earl and his family were our fellow-passengers on the Etruria, and Lord Cyril Bentley occupied the same stateroom with Edwin. The young nobleman took a great fancy to my boy, and so did the Earl and Countess. They were inseparable companions, that is Edwin and Cyril, and when we reached England Edwin was invited very cordially to visit Bentley Hall. Of course I made him accept, though it will delay my educational plans for him somewhat. But it will be quite a feather in his cap to get into such high society.

“Edwin seems to have done himself credit there. He consented to take part in some private theatricals, and this is what the Morning Post of yesterday says: ‘Among the guests of the Earl and Countess of Bentley is a young American boy, Edwin Harcourt, who has quite distinguished himself by his success in private theatricals. We understand that he belongs to a family of high social position in America, but should circumstances ever make it necessary, he could doubtless win success as an actor.’”

“That is quite gratifying, and surprising also,” said Basil. “Edwin, as I remember him, was quite a retiring boy, and the last one that I should have supposed would make a success as an actor.”

“Boys grow and develop wonderfully,” returned Mr. Anderson. “I can imagine that Maria is pleased. She was always ambitious.”

“I don’t know but we are entitled to feel pleased also at the success of our young relative. It makes me regret all the more that I did not meet him.”

In due time Mrs. Harcourt received letters from Basil and also from her uncle, congratulating her on Edwin’s success.

She read them with a smile of exultation.

“All is working well,” she said. “This unknown boy whom I picked up in the Bowery is turning out to be a star of the first magnitude. I am bound to say that he is doing me more credit than my own poor boy would have done. While I can make my relations and trustees believe that he is really my own son, I shall be entitled to draw on his behalf the annual sum of ten thousand dollars, which would otherwise go to Basil and the Mordaunts. How will it all come out? I don’t know, but with moderate prudence, and especially if I can keep Basil and the boy apart, it may last for years.”

When Ben returned from Bentley Hall Mrs. Harcourt received him with an unusual warmth of manner.

“I am proud of you, Edwin,” she said. “You have reflected great credit on me as well as yourself. Where did you learn to act?”

“I acted for four weeks at the People’s Theater on the Bowery.”

“Indeed! In what character?”

“As Ted the Newsboy.”

“I see. Do you think any one who saw you on the stage at that time will be likely to recognize you, if he meets you here?”

“No, I don’t think so. You see,” Ben continued, with a smile, “I am very differently dressed.”

“True. Dress makes a great change.”

“Besides, I pass under a different name.”

“Yes. Let me see, what is your real name?”

“Ben Bruce.” “Oh, yes! And you say your mother lives in the country?”

“Yes, in a small New Hampshire town.”

Mrs. Harcourt seemed pleased to hear this.

“Perhaps you would like to hear my plans,” she said after a pause.

“Yes, mother.”

“I expect to winter in Paris. And, by the way, Edwin, I suppose you know nothing of the French language.”

“No.”

“I shall get you a teacher at once, and wish you to go about the city also—indeed I shall arrange to have you go with him, in order that you may learn to speak French as soon as possible.”

“I should be glad to speak French. I will study hard.”

“That is well. That will gratify me.”

Of course Mrs. Harcourt’s chief idea was to enable Ben, should he ever meet Basil, to hold a conversation with him in French, so that there should be no suspicion that Ben was not what she represented him.

Ben thoroughly enjoyed his winter in Paris. He seemed to have a special taste for languages, for he picked up French with remarkable rapidity, and made some progress in German. “Your son is one marvel, Madam Harcourt,” said Professor Fromont, Ben’s instructor. “I nevaire have had a pupil more quick.”

“He speaks French a great deal better than I do, professor.”

“That is not strange, madam. Young pupils always learn much faster than their elders.”

“And I, being an old woman, can hardly expect to keep up with my boy.”

“Old!” repeated the polite professor, holding up his hands. “Madam hardly looks twenty-five.”

“But as my son is sixteen, I must be rather more than that,” said Mrs. Harcourt, well pleased at the compliment, nevertheless.

It was in April that Ben had a surprise. He was coming out of the Gallery of the Louvre when he met face to face John Wilkins, the dramatic author, in whose play he had first won success as an actor.