Something seemed to tell him that he was standing on the very threshold of the revelation which he had longed for so many years.
Again the stranger shrank as if he had been smitten.
“Why do you ask me that?” be huskily demanded.
“Because,” Geoffrey returned, with grave earnestness, “there is a mystery connected with my own life—because, when I was a child I was abandoned in the most cruel manner, and but for the goodness of the man who found me an outcast in the streets of New York——”
“New York! How came you there?” interrupted his listener, amazed.
“That is more than I can tell you, sir. This gentleman found me in a state of imbecility, took me to his home, cared for me until I was restored to my right mind, and then adopted and educated me as his own son; but for him I should still have been an imbecile, and more pitiable than the lowest paupers that wander about the streets of that city.”
“What! what is this that you are telling me? An imbecile! I cannot understand,” cried the man, looking bewildered.
“I do not know how I came to be in such a state,” Geoffrey continued; “the physicians said it was caused by some injury while I was very young, so my life before that time has remained a mystery to myself and those who have befriended me. If you can throw any light upon it, sir, I entreat you to do so.”
The man quickly arose from his seat at this appeal, but staggered like a person who had been drinking deeply, and seemed like one who had sustained a terrible mental shock.
“I cannot tell you anything now,” he said, putting his hand to his head. “I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I cannot think; I must have time to recover myself.”