“Yes, Major Dale,” he went on, “you must have heard by this time that a man waylaid your daughter, grabbed the papers from her hands and tried to frighten her so that there would be no outcry until he had made his escape.  Well, that man was no other than he who put liquor to my lips when I was a boy; who took me from my home when I was a husband, and made me sign papers that would leave my young wife helpless in all the affairs that she should rightfully control.  Not satisfied with this record of villainy, he, at last, separated me from my wife and daughter, and though I have searched for years for them, it has all been in vain.”

The man stopped.  Tears were streaming down his pallid face and the sorrow of a lifetime seemed about to break the bonds of human endurance.  Major Dale put his hand on the other’s shoulder.

“Cheer up, brother,” he said, “There may yet be time.  Life is with you still.”

“Ah, but have I not searched all this week?  And did not that man promise to take me to them?”

Dorothy had shrunk back when Mr. Burlock said the man who had put terror in her own life was the same person who had destroyed his happiness.  Then it was as Ralph said,—­Miles Burlock did figure in the mysterious case.

The evening was melting into night.  Major Dale was still feeble from his illness and his daughter, quick to see the look of pain on his loved face, determined to stop the story for the time being.

“You must lie down, father,” she said, putting her arm about him, “You know the doctor said to be very careful.”

With a promptness that bespoke good breeding the visitor arose.

“Pray pardon me,” he said politely.  “I have been very selfish.  I will not disturb you longer.  I will come again to-morrow.”

“We will be very glad, indeed, to help you, if we can,” the major replied, rather faintly, for Dorothy had not spoken a moment too soon for his comfort.

“The real matter with which I would ask you to help me is the putting aside, now, of the money which is in my name, and which should be secured against enemies of my poor wife and daughter,” said Miles Burlock.  “I will never again trust anything to the uncertain time when they may be found, for I believe now they are being kept away from me by this same scoundrel, Andrew Anderson.  It may be well for you to know his name.”

“And where is he?” asked the major, his voice showing the feeling he could not hide, a determination to deal severely with the man who had threatened Dorothy.

“That is something I would not dare to tell even if I knew.  My only hope of getting these affairs settled so that I may sometime make amends to my dear ones, is by keeping away from Anderson.  It might not detain you too long to say that last week my friend, my counselor, and benefactress Marian Douglass, passed away.  For years she held safely for me the principal of the money I had been wasting.