“Ben Bruce!” exclaimed Wilkins in surprise and delight.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Wilkins,” said Ben, shaking his hand cordially.

“I had lost sight of you. I did not know you were abroad.”

“I have been several months in Paris,” said Ben.

“But how in the world were you able to come? You didn’t make a fortune by selling papers, I take it.”

“I must tell you that I have been adopted by a wealthy lady, and my name is changed to Edwin Harcourt. Mrs. Harcourt wants my past life forgotten, so I will ask you not to allude to it, nor to call me Ben Bruce. I am not ashamed of it myself, but as Mrs. Harcourt has been kind to me, I don’t wish to annoy her.”

“I understand, Ben, or rather Edwin. I congratulate you on the brilliant change in your fortunes. Why, you are dressed like a prince.” “Mrs. Harcourt is particular about my appearance. But, Mr. Wilkins, what brings you across the water?”

“I came to London, hoping to have my last play brought out at some English theater, but thus far I have met with no success. If I could cast you for your old part, I should have some hope.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilkins.”

“I suppose you have not played any in England?”

“Only in private theatricals. Last October I appeared at Bentley Hall.”

“How in the world did you get a chance to appear there?”

“I was a guest at the Hall. The Honorable Cyril Bentley is my intimate friend.”

“Well,” ejaculated Wilkins, “the way you have got on is something wonderful. Where are you living?”

“At the Grand Hotel. I will invite you to come and see me if you will be careful to call me by my new name. And, by the way, I believe the Earl has considerable influence among theater managers. I will give you a letter to him when you go back to England.”

“I should like nothing better. But I can’t get over my wonder, Ben—I beg pardon—at the idea of your hobnobbing with an English earl.”

“I know other noblemen also,” said Ben with a smile. “They are very kind and agreeable, but I like an American gentleman just as well.”

The next day Mr. Wilkins called upon Ben at the hotel and was introduced to Mrs. Harcourt. As he was circumspect and made no embarrassing allusions to Ben’s New York experiences, he was courteously received and made a favorable impression.

A French gentleman also called, and Wilkins was considerably impressed by hearing Ben converse with him in his own language with easy fluency.

“I hope you had a pleasant voyage, Mr. Wilkins,” said Mrs. Harcourt.

“Very much so, thank you,” replied the dramatist.

“Was the weather good?”

“Not all the time, but I was not seasick. Besides, we had quite an agreeable passenger list.”

“Of course that would make a great difference.”

“I was especially pleased with a gentleman from New York—Mr. Basil Wentworth.” Mrs. Harcourt’s ready smile froze upon her face.

“Basil Wentworth?” she ejaculated.

“Yes, madam. Is he an acquaintance of yours?”

“Yes, I know him,” answered Mrs. Harcourt slowly. Then she continued after a pause. “When did you arrive?”

“A week since. My business was in London, but as I have never before been abroad I could not resist the temptation of running over to Paris.”

“Naturally,” she answered, but her attention seemed to be wandering. “Do you know where Mr. Wentworth is now?”

“He is still in London, I believe.”

“Did he mention,” she continued with studied carelessness, “what business brought him over?”

“I concluded that he came to see Europe. He mentioned one day that this was his first European trip.”

“Very likely. Did he expect to come to Paris?”

“Yes; but he is seeing London and its environs first. I think he has a friend or relative over here somewhere, and hopes to meet him or her.”

The smiling suavity which Mrs. Harcourt showed in the early part of the conversation was gone. It seemed as if some anxiety were disturbing her.

But she felt that she had already said more about this Mr. Wentworth than was prudent, and dropped the subject.

Mr. Wilkins extended his call to half an hour and then rose to go.

“I would ask you to call again, Mr. Wilkins,” said Mrs. Harcourt, “but I am not sure how long we shall remain in Paris.”

“Thank you, but my time is up, and I shall leave for London this evening.”

“Where are you staying, Mr. Wilkins?” asked Ben.

“At the Hotel Wagram.”

“I will send round to you the letter to the Earl of Bentley.”

“What letter do you mean, Edwin?” asked Mrs. Harcourt.

“Mr. Wilkins wishes to produce one of his plays in London, and I thought the Earl might be of some service to him. You don’t object to my writing?”

“Oh, not at all. The Earl thinks a great deal of you,” she added with an inflection of pride in her voice. “By the way, Edwin,” said Mrs. Harcourt after her visitor was gone, “does this Mr. Wilkins know something of your past history?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Then request him not to speak of it to any one. I am perhaps foolishly sensitive, but I don’t wish any one to suspect that you are not my real son.”

“Your wishes shall be respected, mother.”

When Mrs. Harcourt was alone she said to herself: “The danger I have anticipated is at hand. How fortunate that I know of Basil’s arrival in Europe. He must not meet me or Edwin. He is sharp, and the meeting may lead to an exposure of my clever scheme. There is no help for it. Edwin and I must leave here at once.”

The next morning Mrs. Harcourt left Paris suddenly, not letting Ben know where they were bound.

Two days later Basil Wentworth, who had made inquiries in London and obtained directions, reached Paris and presented himself at the Grand Hotel, fully expecting to see his cousin.

“Mrs. Harcourt?” said the concierge. “She has gone away.”

“She has gone away! Gone away?” repeated Basil in surprise. “When did she start?”

“Two days since—on Tuesday.” “Where did she go?”

“Pardon, monsieur. I do not know.”

“Did she leave no address, to forward her letters to?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Did her departure seem to be sudden? I mean had she been planning to go away at that time?”

“No, monsieur. I never heard her speak of it.”

“And the young man—her son—did she take him with her?”

“Oh, yes, monsieur. Monsieur Edwin is always with her.”

“He is a—pleasant boy? Do you like him?”

“Oh, yes, monsieur. Every one likes Monsieur Edwin. He is tres gentil.”

“Does he speak French?”

“Oh, yes, he speaks French extremely well—and German, too, but I do not know German. I cannot tell whether he speaks it well—not so well, I mean, as French. He speaks French better than madam, his mother.”

Basil could not explain why he asked these last questions, but no doubt there was a momentary suspicion in his mind that the boy with Mrs. Harcourt was not his cousin. The fact that the boy, according to the testimony of the concierge, was able to speak French and German, was calculated to dissipate any suspicions he might have entertained.

Had Basil known that Mrs. Harcourt was aware of his being in Europe, the suspicions would have been revived, but this he did not know, as he did not meet Wilkins the dramatist again.

Unable to get any clew to Mrs. Harcourt’s whereabouts, Basil was compelled to leave Paris unsatisfied. He left a note with his cousin’s bankers, in which he wrote: “I regret very much that I am obliged to return to America without seeing you and Edwin, but in the state of my uncle’s health I cannot stay longer. I came over on a little business, but that was soon accomplished, and I wished incidentally to see you—some time, perhaps, I may be more fortunate. Now I can only say good-by.”

When some time later Mrs. Harcourt received this letter at Geneva she breathed a sigh of relief.

“The danger is over!” she ejaculated. “Thank heaven!”