“She lived on a farm five miles from here, and she was my sweetheart.  Her mother is blind and her father old and feeble.  She worked for a dentist in the town and was accused of stealing a ring, and it nearly broke her heart to be so unjustly suspected.  In order to make good the loss of the ring, a valuable diamond—­I—­I got into trouble, and Lucy was so shocked and distressed that she—­she lost her head—­became mad, you know—­and left home during the night without a word to any one.  We haven’t been able to find her since.”

“That’s too bad,” remarked Eliza Parsons, buttering her bread.

“About the time that Lucy went away, you appeared at Elmhurst,” continued Tom.  “And in face and form you’re the image of my Lucy.  That is why I asked you to tell me where you came from and how you came here.”

“Ah, you think I’m mad, do you?” asked the girl, with a quizzical smile.  “Well, I’m not going to satisfy your curiosity, even to prove my sanity; and I’m not anxious to pose as your lost Lucy.  So please pass the sugar and try to be sociable, instead of staring at me as if I scared you.”

Tom passed the sugar, but he could not eat, nor could he tear himself away from this strange girl’s presence.  He tried again to draw her into conversation, but she showed annoyance and resented his persistence.  Presently she went away, giving him an amused smile as she left the room—­a smile that made him feel that this was indeed a case of mistaken identity.

In fact, Tom Gates, on sober reflection, knew that the girl could not be Lucy, yet he could not still the yearning in his heart whenever he saw her.  His heart declared that she was Lucy, and his head realized that she could not be.

While he waited in the library for Mr. Forbes to return from Fairview a man was shown into the room and sat down quietly in a corner.

He was a small, lean man, of unassuming appearance, with a thin face and gray eyes set close together.  When he looked at Tom Gates he scarcely seemed to see him, and his manner conveyed the impression that he disliked to attract notice.

“Waiting for Mr. Forbes, sir?” asked Tom.

“Yes,” was the quiet reply.

Suddenly it struck the young man that this might be the detective who called every evening to give his report, and if so Tom was anxious to talk with him.  So he ventured to say: 

“It’s Mr. Burke, isn’t it?”

The man nodded, and looked out of the window.

“I’m Tom Gates, sir.”

“Yes; I know.”

“You’ve seen me before?” asked the youth, astonished.

“No; I’ve heard of you.  That’s all.”

Tom flushed, remembering his recent crime.  But he was eager to question the detective.

“Have you heard anything of Lucy Rogers, Mr. Burke?”

“Not yet.”

“Is there no trace of her at all?”

“A slight trace—­nothing worth mentioning,” said Mr. Burke.