"It became my sad duty to notify Mr. Marlowe of the tragedy. In his reply—a frank, manly letter—he expressed his regret that a difference of opinion had ever interrupted the cordiality of his relations with his sister and her husband, and said that, as he and his wife already loved little Cecily devotedly, they would adopt her as their own. They were reluctant to have her childhood shadowed by her parents' sorrowful story, and so believed it best that she should never know that she was not indeed their daughter, Cecily Marlowe.
"Well, that is the story of the man who called himself Archibald Ferris," said Dr. Atwater. He looked about him inquiringly and added: "I hope that my telling it has given all the enlightenment that was expected?"
During his long recital every one had sat with eyes fastened upon him, and no one of his audience had a thought for the other. Now that it was over they each drew a long breath and settled back in their chairs. And then, for the first time, they noticed the curious conduct of Miss Benedict.
She was sitting far forward in her chair, her big gray eyes almost starting from her head, her hands clutching the arms of the chair till the blue veins stood out. On her forehead were great beads of perspiration, and she drew her breath in little gasps. Quite unconscious of their united gaze, she leaned forward and touched Dr. Atwater's arm with an imploring hand.
"Was there—was there no way of—of ascertaining his real name?" she stammered.
Dr. Atwater looked at her with compassion in his kindly eyes. "I know of but one thing that might have served as an identification," he conceded. "When I was giving him the medical examination, I noticed on his left upper arm two small initials surrounded by a tiny row of dots. They were just such a mark as small boys often tattoo themselves with in indelible ink, and of course, they are there for life. Doubtless he had so decorated himself with his initials in his boyhood days—"
"Oh, what were the initials?" interrupted Miss Benedict in a stifled voice.
"They were 'S. B.,'" replied Dr. Atwater.
With a little choking cry, Miss Benedict buried her face in her hands.
"Oh, it can't—it can't be possible!" they heard her murmur. Then in an instant she had collected herself and gazed about at them all, amazement and incredulity in her lovely eyes.