A very good company it was that was gathered in one of the large rooms at Fraunces's Tavern. There, for some reason, William's thoughts had again recurred to the distasteful dream.
"Lieutenant Frothingham, I have the honor to present to you Mr. Bolton Blount, of Albany," a voice interrupted his thoughts. "He is the uncle of the young man who disappeared so strangely some weeks ago. Every one who had the pleasure of meeting him has remarked the curious resemblance that you bear one another."
"I cannot see it," said Mr. Blount, looking politely at William's face and figure. "'Twould be quite a compliment to my poor unfortunate nephew; but they say that relationship can never see resemblances."
"Oh, 'tis most remarkable!" interrupted a young cavalry officer. "I had the honor of piloting your nephew to the town, and a most agreeable and well-spoken young gentleman he was."
"Richard must have improved, then," said Mr. Blount. "Did you mark whether he was lame?"
"Yes, the left foot, but slightly," said the officer; "but he was quite graceful with it all, and his hair was black and straight."
"Like an Indian's?"
"Yes," was the answer, "very like."
"'Tis passing strange," said the uncle, and sighed; "it almost seems like witchcraft. No trace of him to be found, although we have searched everywhere."
As William was walking to his lodgings that night a brother officer joined him, and passed his arm through his.