“You are right, old man,” speaks Anna, raising thoughtfully her great black eyes, as the antiquary pauses and watches each change of her countenance; “that name was given me by Hag Zogbaum, when I was a child in her den, in New York, and when no one cared for me.  What my right name was has now slipped my memory.  I was indeed a wretched child, and know little of myself.”

“Was it Munday?” inquires the old man.  Scarce has he lisped the name before she catches it up and repeats it, incoherently, “Munday!  Monday!  Munday!” her eyes flash with anxiety.  “Ah, I remember now.  I was called Anna Munday by Mother Bridges.  I lived with her before I got to the den of Hag Zogbaum.  And Mother Bridges sold apples at a stand at the corner of a street, on West street.  It seems like a dream to me now.  I do not want to recall those dark days of my childhood.  Have you not some revelation to make respecting my parents?” The old man says the signs will not aid him further.  “On my arm,” she pursues, baring her white, polished arm, “there is a mark.  I know not who imprinted it there.  See, old man.”  The old man sees high up on her right arm two hearts and a broken anchor, impressed with India ink blue and red.  “Yes,” repeats the antiquary, viewing it studiously, “but it gives out no history.  If you could remember who put it there.”  Of that she has no recollection.  The old man cannot relieve her anxiety, and arranging her hood she bids him good night, forces a piece of gold into his hand, and seeks her home, disappointed.

The antiquary’s predictions were founded on what Mr. Soloman Snivel had told him, and that gentleman got what he knew of Anna’s history from George Mullholland.  To this, however, he added what suggestions his suspicions gave rise to.  The similarity of likeness between Anna and Madame Montford was striking; Madame Montford’s mysterious searches and inquiries for the woman Monday had something of deep import in them.  Mag Munday’s strange disappearance from Charleston, and her previous importuning for the old dress left in pawn with McArthur, were not to be overlooked.  These things taken together, and Mr. Snivel saw a case there could be no mistaking.  That case became stronger when his fashionable friend engaged his services to trace out what had become of the woman Mag Munday, and to further ascertain what the girl Anna Bonard knew of her own history.

CHAPTER XIX.

A secret interview.

While the scene we have related in the foregoing chapter was being enacted, there might be seen pacing the great colonnade of the Charleston hotel, the tall figure of a man wrapped in a massive talma.  Heedless of the throng of drinkers gathered in the spacious bar-room, making the very air echo with their revelry, he pauses every few moments, watches intently up and then down Meeting street, now apparently contemplating the twinkling stars, then turning as if disappointed,