“No; he had a lady and a boy with him.”

“Is it possible that Uncle Oliver has been married to some designing widow?” Mrs. Pitkin asked herself.  “It is positively terrible!”

She did not dare to betray her agitation before Mrs. Vangriff, and sat on thorns till that lady saw fit to take leave.  Then she turned to Alonzo and said, in a hollow voice: 

“Lonny, you heard what that woman said?”

“You bet!”

“Do you think Uncle Oliver has gone and got married again?” she asked, in a hollow voice.

“I shouldn’t wonder a mite, ma,” was the not consolitary reply.

“If so, what will become of us?  My poor boy, I looked upon you and myself as likely to receive all of Uncle Oliver’s handsome property.  As it is——­” and she almost broke down.

“Perhaps he’s only engaged?” suggested Alonzo.

“To be sure!” said his mother, brightening up.

“If so, the affair may yet be broken off.  Oh, Lonny, I never thought your uncle was so artful.  His trip to Florida was only a trick to put us off the scent.”

“What are you going to do about it, ma?”

“I must find out as soon as possible where Uncle Oliver is staying.  Then I will see him, and try to cure him of his infatuation.  He is evidently trying to keep us in the dark, or he would have come back to his rooms.”

“How are you going to find out, ma?”

“I don’t know.  That’s what puzzles me.”

“S’pose you hire a detective?”

“I wouldn’t dare to.  Your uncle would be angry when he found it out.”

“Do you s’pose Phil knows anything about it?” suggested Alonzo.

“I don’t know; it is hardly probable.  Do you know where he lives?”

“With the woman who called here and said she was your cousin.”

“Yes, I remember, Lonny.  I will order the carriage, and we will go there.  But you must be very careful not to let them know Uncle Oliver is in New York.  I don’t wish them to meet him.”

“All right!  I ain’t a fool.  You can trust me, ma.”

Soon the Pitkin carriage was as the door, and Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo entered it, and were driven to the shabby house so recently occupied by Mrs. Forbush.

“It’s a low place!” said Alonzo contemptuously, as he regarded disdainfully the small dwelling.

“Yes; but I suppose it is as good as she can afford to live in.  Lonny, will you get out and ring the bell?  Ask if Mrs. Forbush lives there.”

Alonzo did as requested.

The door was opened by a small girl, whose shabby dress was in harmony with the place.

“Rebecca’s child, I suppose!” said Mrs. Pitkin, who was looking out of the carriage window.

“Does Mrs. Forbush live here?” asked Alonzo.

“No, she doesn’t.  Mrs. Kavanagh lives here.”

“Didn’t Mrs. Forbush used to live here?” further asked Alonzo, at the suggestion of his mother.