“Geoffrey Dale! Good heavens!” cried the man, shrinking back as if he had been dealt a violent blow, and growing deathly pale.
Geoffrey himself turned white at this.
He was ever on the alert to gain some knowledge of his parentage, and this man’s strange manner made him think that perhaps he might know something of his early history.
“Yes, sir; I perceive that the name affects you strangely. Did you ever hear it before?” he asked, earnestly, searching the stranger’s face.
“Ah—years ago—a friend—excuse me—I am very much overcome,” the man murmured, incoherently, as he staggered to a rustic bench near by, where, sinking upon it and bowing his head upon his hands, he groaned aloud.
Geoffrey stood transfixed, his face plainly betraying anxiety, dread, and perplexity, while he was inwardly so excited over this strange meeting that Gladys, as she leaned upon his arm, could feel him trembling in every limb.
“Will you explain yourself, sir?” Geoffrey said at length, and feeling that the silence and mystery were becoming intolerable. “Do you know aught of me—of any person named Dale?”
The gentleman shivered, as if the question had jarred upon some sensitive chord.
“Yes,” he answered, after a moment of hesitation, while he lifted a haggard face to his questioner; “years ago I had a friend by that name; but—but——”
“Will you relate the history of that friend to me?” Geoffrey asked, with white lips, and speaking with an effort.