"It is I, gráf," said the man who had led the way. "I have a friend with me."
"Come in, then."
The two entered; the door was gently closed behind them. The outer room was in complete darkness; but, leading the way through that, Count Walewski opened a farther door, which led into a second room, dimly lighted by a couple of candles. A man was seated at a table, reading.
"Here is our friend Godunof, comrade," said the count in French.
Mr. Brown looked up—looked again, stared, then sprang to his feet.
"Jack!"
The taller of the two visitors brushed past Godunof, and father and son clasped hands. For a few moments not a word was spoken by either of them; a stranger might not perhaps have guessed from their manner that they had been parted for nearly a year—the father a victim of foul wrong, the son ignorant of the father's whereabouts and burning to avenge the wrong. But beneath his iron-gray moustache and beard Mr. Brown's lips were quivering, and Jack had a lump in his throat which made him incapable of speech when his father turned to the count and, keeping Jack's hand in his, said simply:
"My son, Count."
Count Walewski was deep in conversation with the other man. He seemed scarcely to comprehend what Brown had said.
"Your son! But—my daughter—you remember her letter; she is here, now, in a junk at the shore; Godunof says so; it bewilders me; am I dreaming? Your son!—they came together; Godunof tells me they have come to take us away. After all these years!—Brown, this will kill me!"