Dora in a bewildered way read aloud this sentence, which in big black letters stared her in the face,—­

“Smithson, alias Smith.”

“Well, go on, go on; read what is underneath,” urged Agnes, as Dora stopped; and Dora went on and read,—­

“It seems that that arch schemer and swindler Frank Smithson, who got himself out of the country so successfully with his ill-gotten gains from the Star Mining Company, has dropped the last syllable from his too notorious name, and is now figuring in South America under the name of Smith.  His wife and young son are with him, and the three are living luxuriously in the suburbs of Rio, where Smithson has rented a villa.  An older child, a daughter of fourteen or fifteen, was left behind in this country with Smithson’s brother’s widow, who has also taken the name of Smith.  They are staying at a summer resort not far from Boston.”

The bewildered look on Dora’s face did not disappear as she came to the end of this statement.

“What did you want me to read this for?” she asked Agnes.

“What did I want you to read it for?  Is it possible that you don’t see,—­that you don’t understand?”

“Understand what?  We don’t know these Smithsons.”

“But we do know these—­Smiths.”

“Agnes, you don’t mean—­”

“Yes, I do mean that I believe—­that I am sure that these Smiths are those very identical Smithsons.”

“Oh, Agnes, what makes you think so?  Smith is such a very common name, you know.”

“Yes, I know it; but here is a girl whose name is Smith, and she is with a Mrs. Smith, her aunt, and they are staying at a summer resort near Boston.  How does that fit?”

“Oh, Agnes, it does look like—­as if it must be, doesn’t it?” cried Dora, in a sort of shuddering enjoyment of the sensational situation.

“Of course it does.  I knew I was right about those people.  I knew there was something queer and mysterious about them.  And what do you think,—­only yesterday I happened to go into the little parlor, where there are writing-materials, and there sat this very Peggy Smith directing a letter; and when she went out, I happened to cast my eyes at the blotting-pad she had used, and I couldn’t help reading—­for it was just as plain as print—­the last part of the address, and it was—­’South America’!”

CHAPTER IV.

“I don’t believe it!  I don’t believe it!” said Tilly Morris, indignantly, as Dora wound up her recital of the Smithson-Smith story.

“Well, you can believe it or not; but I don’t see how you can help believing, when you remember that their name is Smith, and that they are aunt and niece, and that the niece is fourteen or fifteen,—­just as the paper said,—­and that they are staying at a summer resort not far from Boston, and—­that the niece writes to some one in South America,—­think of that!”