“I confess it, captain,” Floyd said. “I suppose that is a feeling that would be natural to any one placed as I am.”
“Most decidedly,” Duncan agreed. “And it is my opinion that when you do discover what you are looking for, it will all seem so simple and plain that you will wonder how you could have missed it so long. I don't think it is possible for a thing like that to remain hidden always.”
“It certainly has foiled me, captain,” Floyd replied. “I have spent more money and made more effort than you would dream of, but met with disappointment on every hand.”
“Perhaps you didn't look close enough at home,” said Duncan. “I confess the thing has interested me a good deal, and the more I see of you, and observe your pluck and courage, the more I would like to see you discover what you want.”
“Thank you, captain,” Floyd said, earnestly.
“I'm going to confess something else, too,” the planter went on, “now that I see you don't resent my interest. The truth is, I had a talk with Colonel Price about it. You know he understands more about genealogy and family histories than any man in the county. I asked him if he didn't think that your given name, 'Nelson,' might not tend to show that you were, in some way, related to a family by that name. Price agreed with me that it was likely, and then it flashed on me that I knew a man down in Atlanta by the name of Floyd—Henry A. Floyd—whose mother was one of the South Carolina Nelsons.”
“Is it possible?” the young merchant asked, leaning forward in almost breathless interest.
“Yes, and he is a man of good standing, but very unsuccessful financially—a man who was educated for the law, and failed at it, and now, I believe, lives only on the income from a big farm in Bartow County. I knew him quite well when we were both young men; but he never married, and of late years he seems soured against everybody. I met him at the Capitol in Atlanta only last week, and tried to get him interested in your family matter. At first, from his evident surprise that there could be any one bearing both those names up here, I thought he was going to reveal something that would aid you. But after asking me three or four questions about you, he closed up, and that was the end of it. He said he knew nothing of your parentage, but that he was sure you were no kin of his.”
“Say, captain”—Pole Baker broke into the conversation—“would you mind tellin' me right here what you told 'im about Nelson? I've seed the old cuss; I've been on his farm; I once thought about rentin' land from 'im. Did you tell 'im Nelson was a man of high standing here—that he was about the richest young chap in the county an' got more grit than a car-load o' sand-paper?”
“No,” Duncan laughed. “He didn't let me get that far, Baker. In hopes of rousing his sympathy, I reckon I laid a good deal of stress on Floyd's early misfortune. Of course, I was going to tell him all about you, Floyd, but, as I say, he didn't give me a good chance.”