One morning they were leisurely strolling through one of the shady avenues of Congress Park, when they saw a distinguished-looking gentleman advancing toward them.
He did not appear to notice them, however, until he was almost upon them, when, suddenly looking up, he gave a violent start of surprise; then he advanced, with an eager smile and extended hand, exclaiming:
“Why, Everet Mapleson! Where on earth did you drop from? I should as soon have thought of seeing the Emperor of Russia as yourself this morning.”
Geoffrey lifted his hat and bowed politely to the speaker, as he replied:
“You have made a slight mistake, sir; I am not Everet Mapleson, although this is not the first time that I have been taken for him.”
“Nonsense; don’t try to play such a joke on me—I’ve known you too many years for you to palm yourself off as any one else,” returned the gentleman, laughingly, while he shot an amused glance at the young man’s companion, as if he suspected that she was the cause of his wishing to remain incog.
“I assure you, sir, I am speaking the truth. I am not Everet Mapleson,” Geoffrey reiterated.
The stranger’s face grew suddenly overcast.
“Then who in thunder are you?” he demanded, in sharp, excited accents.
“My name is Geoffrey Dale Huntress, at your service, sir,” Geoffrey responded, courteously, although he had flushed hotly at the curt question.