“I—­I do not understand,” said Jack.

“My young friend, our meeting this morning seems providential.  I have every reason to believe that this child—­your adopted sister—­is my daughter, stolen from me by an unknown enemy at the time of which you speak.  From that day to this I have never been able to obtain the slightest clew that might lead to her discovery.  I have long taught myself to look upon her as dead.”

“It was Jack’s turn to be surprised.  He looked at the lady beside him.  She was barely thirty.  The beauty of her girlhood had ripened into the maturer beauty of womanhood.  There was the same dazzling complexion—­the same soft flush upon the cheeks.  The eyes, too, were wonderfully like Ida’s.  Jack looked, and what he saw convinced him.

“You must be right,” he said.  “Ida is very much like you.”

“You think so?” said Mrs. Clifton, eagerly.

“Yes, madam.”

“I had a picture—­a daguerreotype—­taken of Ida just before I lost her.  I have treasured it carefully.  I must show it to you.”

The carriage stopped before a stately mansion in a wide and quiet street.  The driver dismounted, and opened the door.  Jack assisted Mrs. Clifton to alight.

Bashfully, he followed the lady up the steps, and, at her bidding, seated himself in an elegant apartment, furnished with a splendor which excited his wonder.  He had little time to look about him, for Mrs. Clifton, without pausing to take off her street-attire, hastened down stairs with an open daguerreotype in her hand.

“Can you remember Ida when she was brought to your house?” she asked.  “Did she look like this?”

“It is her image,” said Jack, decidedly.  “I should know it anywhere.”

“Then there can be no further doubt,” said Mrs. Clifton.  “It is my child whom you have cared for so long.  Oh, why could I not have known it?  How many sleepless nights and lonely days would it have spared me!  But God be thanked for this late blessing!  Pardon me, I have not yet asked your name.”

“My name is Crump—­Jack Crump.”

“Jack?” said the lady, smiling.

“Yes, madam; that is what they call me.  It would not seem natural to be called by another.”

“Very well,” said Mrs. Clifton, with a smile which went to Jack’s heart at once, and made him think her, if anything, more beautiful than Ida; “as Ida is your adopted sister, that makes us connected in some way, doesn’t it?  I won’t call you Mr. Crump, for that would seem too formal.  I will call you Jack.”

To be called Jack by such a beautiful lady, who every day of her life was accustomed to live in a state which he thought could not be exceeded, even by royal state, almost upset our hero.  Had Mrs. Clifton been Queen Victoria herself, he could not have felt a profounder respect and veneration for her than he did already.

“Now Jack,” said Mrs. Clifton, “we must take measures immediately to discover Ida.  I want you to tell me about her disappearance from your house, and what steps you have taken thus far towards finding her out.”