Hugo stopped short, till the stranger should come up. He intended to warn him off the grounds, as an intruder.

"Look here, my man," he said, with an air of authority, "are you aware that these are private grounds?"

"I suppose they are," said the intruder, smiling.

Hugo was surprised to see that he showed no confusion or timidity, but stood his ground boldly. The fellow's unconcern nettled him.

"Then, if you suppose they are," he said, sharply, "you must know that you are trespassing. You can have no business here, and the best course, if you wish to avoid trouble, is to turn about and gain the highway as speedily as possible."

Hugo fancied that this would be sufficient to put the intruder to flight, but he was mistaken.

"Who told you I had no business here?" he asked.

"Don't be impertinent! A man like you can have no business here unless you wish to obtain a position as laborer, and we have no vacancy of that kind."

The intruder held out his hands and said, quietly: "Do them look like the hands of a laborer?"

Hugo glanced at them. They were as white and unsoiled by any of the outward evidences of manual labor as his own. Yet the man was shabbily dressed, and looked poor. Be that as it might, he had never been accustomed to labor with his hands.

"No," answered Hugo, "but that isn't in your favor. However, I have no further time to waste with you. Leave these grounds at once."

"Not until I have had some further conversation with you, Mr. Hugo Richmond," said the visitor, regarding Hugo fixedly.

"Who are you?" demanded Hugo, abruptly. "You know my name, it seems. Have I ever known you?"

"Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Fitzgerald."

"I aver that you are he," said Hugo, after a brief glance of scrutiny, "though I should hardly have known you. I am glad you are come. I was wishing particularly to see you."

Fitzgerald looked surprised. He had fancied that he would be an unwelcome, perhaps a dreaded apparition, yet here was the man who he had thought would be disturbed at his appearance actually expressing his pleasure at meeting him.

"Then I am glad I came," he said. "I thought perhaps you would be sorry to see me."

"So I should have been a week since. Now something has occurred which makes a meeting between us desirable."

"Is your uncle dead?" asked the visitor, with eager interest.

"No, he is still living," returned Hugo, with a half unconscious sigh of regret. "Walk with me to yonder summer-house. I must have some serious conversation with you."

Fitzgerald followed, wondering considerably what Hugo had to say to him, and the two sat down in a summer-house or rustic arbor at some distance from the house, where there were not likely to be any listeners to their speech.

When they were seated Hugo asked abruptly, "What did you do with Julian's boy?"

Fitzgerald started in some surprise, and perhaps embarrassment, and answered, "You know very well, Mr. Hugo. He died of scarlet fever."

"So you reported, and I was quite ready to accept the report without inquiring into particulars. Now I have reason to doubt your statement."

"Oh, well, he may have died of something else," said Fitzgerald, shrugging his shoulders. "As long as he died, I suppose it didn't matter to you what was the nature of his disease?"

"Not if he were really dead."

"You don't doubt that, do you?"

"Yes, I do; moreover, I am quite convinced that it is false."

"Then you had better keep it to yourself," suggested Fitzgerald with a cunning smile, "since the boy, if alive, would be his grandfather's heir."

"But suppose his grandfather suspects he is living?"

"That would alter matters. But why should he suspect?"

"Fitzgerald, do you know where this boy is?" asked Hugo, searchingly.

"I don't even know that he is living. If you do you know more than I do about him."

"You know, at least, that he did not die at the time you reported his death."

"Well, I don't mind confessing as much as that."

"You played me false!" said Hugo, with angry bitterness.

"Suppose I did?" retorted Fitzgerald, defiantly. "That's better than to kill an innocent boy, isn't it?"

"Hush!" exclaimed Hugo, in alarm. "Don't use such words. They might be overheard."

"How do you know the boy is alive?" asked Fitzgerald, after a pause.

"I saw him myself within a week."

"Where?"

"At Crampton, in a circus performance; the boy was riding bareback in the ring. He is called on the bills, 'The Boy Wonder,' and is a daring and graceful rider. Julian was always fond of horses."

"What name does he bear?"

"Robert Rudd."

"Are you sure it is Julian's son?"

"As sure as I need be. He is the perfect image of my cousin at his age."

"The boy has no suspicion of his origin, I suppose?"

"Not the slightest."

"Then why need you be troubled?"

"Because my uncle was with me, and he, too, noticed the extraordinary resemblance of the boy-rider to his son. Ever since he has been restless, and now he insists upon my seeking out the boy, and bringing him here to live with him."

Fitzgerald whistled.

"That would make a dark lookout for you, Mr. Hugo," he said.

"Of course it would. Besides, if the boy knew anything of his past history, my uncle would be readily convinced that it was really his grandson, and I would be set aside as the heir to Chestnutwood."

"I see."

"Now tell me, Fitzgerald, how does it happen that the boy has been trained up to such a career?"

"I can't tell positively. I gave a tramp a sum of money to take charge of him and carry him about, passing him off as his own son. I suppose the man died and the boy fell in with some circus people, who saw that they could make use of him."

"That seems plausible enough," said Hugo, thoughtfully. "At any rate our concern is not with the past, but with the future. I suppose you are not exactly prosperous?"

Fitzgerald drew a purse from his pocket, and extracted a twenty-five cent coin.

"That is all the money I have," he answered.

"Do you feel like going into my employment again?"

"Yes."

"Then we will see if between us we cannot stave off this danger which threatens my prospects."

There was a lengthened conference, into the particulars of which we need not enter, stating only that Robert was the subject of it. Fitzgerald left Chestnutwood that same evening, plentifully supplied with money.