“Oh, sir, I couldn’t be mistaken about that.”

Just then Mrs. Brent turned to a gentleman at her side and spoke.  It was Mr. Granville.

“Who is that gentleman?” said Mr. Carter reflectively.  “Do you think Mrs. Brent is married again?”

“I don’t know what to think!” said Philip, bewildered.

“I will tell you what to do.  You cannot allow these people to elude you.  Go to the hotel, ask a direction to the nearest detective office, have a man detailed to come here directly, and let him find, if necessary, where your step-mother and her son are living.”

Philip did so, and it was the close of the second act before he returned.  With him was a small, quiet gentleman, of unpretending appearance, but skilled as a detective.

“Now,” continued Mr. Carter, “you may venture at any time to go forward and speak to your friends—­if they can be called such.”

“I don’t think they can, sir.  I won’t go till the last intermission.”

Phil was forestalled, however.  At the close of the fourth act Jonas happened to look back, and his glance fell upon Philip.

A scared, dismayed look was on his face as he clutched his mother’s arm and whispered: 

“Ma, Philip is sitting just back of us.”

Mrs. Brent’s heart almost ceased to beat.  She saw that the moment of exposure was probably at hand.

With pale face she whispered: 

“Has he seen us?”

“He is looking right at us.”

She had time to say no more.  Philip left his seat, and coming forward, approached the seat of his step-mother.

“How do you do, Mrs. Brent?” he said.

She stared at him, but did not speak.

“How are you, Jonas?” continued our hero.

“My name isn’t Jonas,” muttered the boy addressed.

Mr. Granville meanwhile had been eagerly looking at Philip.  There appeared to be something in his appearance which riveted the attention of the beholder.  Was it the voice of nature which spoke from the striking face of the boy?

“You have made a mistake, boy,” said Mrs. Brent, summoning all her nerve.  “I am not the lady you mention, and this boy does not bear the name of Jonas.”

“What is his name, then?” demanded Philip.

“My name is Philip Granville,” answered Jonas quickly.

“Is it?  Then it has changed suddenly,” answered Phil, in a sarcastic voice.  “Six months ago, when we were all living at Planktown, your name was Jonas Webb.”

“You must be a lunatic!” said Mrs. Brent, with audacious falsehood.

“My own name is Philip, as you very well know.”

“Your name Philip?” exclaimed Mr. Granville, with an excitement which he found it hard to control.

“Yes, sir; the lady is my step-mother, and this boy is her son Jonas.”

“And you—­whose son are you?” gasped Mr. Granville.

“I don’t know, sir.  I was left at an early age at a hotel kept by this lady’s husband, by my father, who never returned.”