and a few
thousands in bonds . . . not if he knew it! But find out who she was,
know her, talk to her, learn what he felt was an interesting
history--quite another matter.

IV

The next evening when he arrived at the club he found Mr. Dinwiddie
fuming.

"What do you think!" he exclaimed as he led his guest to his favorite
table in the corner. "That old rascal bluffed me! Bluffed me. Said
there was no relative of Countess Zattiany in the country that he knew
of. Looked blank as a post when I told him of the extraordinary
resemblance of that girl to Mary Ogden. Said he never heard of her.
Laughed at the idea of a sub-rosa daughter. Pretended to be angry at
such an aspersion on Mary's fair fame--was in love with her himself
like the rest of us. But he was lying and he knew that I knew he was
lying. What'll you have?"

"Anything. Go ahead. I know by the glitter of your eye that you
haven't finished."

"You're right, I haven't." He gave his order and leaned forward.
"I've done a little prospecting on my own account. Mary inherited the
old Ogden house over on Murray Hill. I happen to know that the lease
ran out last year and that it hasn't been rented since. Well, I walked
past there today, and some one is living in it. Boarding off. Windows
open. Fresh curtains. A servant receiving a parcel at the area door.
She's there, mark my words."

"Not a doubt of it. Why didn't you walk boldly up and send in your
card?"

"Hadn't the courage. Besides, that girl never heard of me. I hadn't
the ghost of an excuse."

"Why not put Mrs. Oglethorpe on the scent? She could call. Women are
always fertile in excuses."

"I can't see what pretext she could trump up. She'd be keen enough,
all right, but she hardly could tell this haughty creature with the
unmistakable stamp of the great world on her that she knows she must be
the left-handed daughter of Mary Ogden. Even Jane hasn't assurance
enough for that."

"She might assume that this young woman is a member of the Countess
Zattiany's family--daughter of a cousin or something--those
extraordinary resemblances do recur in families. . . . That indeed may
be the explanation."

"Not a bit of it. That girl is Mary's daughter."

"I'm inclined to agree with you. But it is understood that you can't
hurl it at her. Mrs. Oglethorpe, however, could invent a pretty
pretence--saw her at the theatre--struck by her likeness to her old
friend--discovered