The silence which had prevailed for half an hour, was broken by a whisper from the lips of the woman—
"Of what are you thinking, Randolph?"
"Of the strange man whom we met at the house half way between New York and Philadelphia. His name and his personality are wrapt in impenetrable mystery."
"Had it not been for him—"
"Ay, had it not been for him, we should have been lost. You would have become the prey of the—the master, Esther, who owns you, and I,—I—well, no matter, I would have been dead."
"After the scene in the house, Randolph, he came on with us, and by his directions we took rooms at the City Hotel. From the moment of our arrival, only a few hours ago, we did not see him, until—"
"Until an hour ago. Then he came into our room at the hotel. 'Here is a key,' said he, 'and your home is No. ——, Broadway. Go there at once, and await patiently the coming of the twenty-fifth of December.—You will find servants to wait upon you, you will find money to supply your wants,—it is in the drawer of the desk which you will discover in your bedroom—and most of all, you will there be safe from the attempts of your persecutor.' These were his words. We came at once, and find ourselves—the servants excepted—the sole tenants of this splendid mansion."
"But don't you remember his last words, as we left the hotel? 'At the hour of six,' said he, this singular unknown, 'you will be waited on by a much treasured friend.'—Who can it be that is to come and see us at that hour?"
"Friend," Randolph echoed bitterly, "what 'friend' have we, save this personage, whose very name is unknown to us? Our father is dead. When I say that I say at once that we are utterly alone in the world."
"And yet there is a career before you, Randolph," faltered Esther.