Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and steadily perused the face of the stranger, as though, in the effort, to recognize him.
He was a young man of a muscular frame, clad in a single-breasted blue coat, which was buttoned over a broad chest. He was of the medium height. His forehead was broad; his eyes clear gray; his lips wide and firm; his nose inclining to the aquiline; his chin round and solid. The general expression of his features was that of straightforwardness and energy of character. There was the freshness and the warmth of youth upon his face, and his forehead was stamped with the ideality of genius. As he wore his brown hair in short, thick curls, it marked the outline of his head, and threw his forehead distinctly into view.
"You are,—you are,—where did I see you?" hesitated Herman.
"I am Arthur Dermoyne," was the reply, in an even, but emphatic voice.
Then there was an embarrassing pause.
"Where have I met you?" said Herman, as if in the painful effort to recollect.
"At the house of Mr. Burney, in the city of Philadelphia," was the answer.
"Ah! now I remember!" ejaculated Herman; "Poor, poor Mr. Burney! You have heard of the sad accident which took place last night, ah—ah—?"
Herman buried his face in his hands, and seemed profoundly affected.
"I saw his mangled body at the house half way between New York and Philadelphia, only a few hours ago," the young man's voice was cold and stern, "and now I am in New York, endeavoring to find the scoundrel who abducted his only daughter."