"There was another child--yes, my mother gave birth to two children, one of whom your father stole on the night of its birth and reared as his own. His purpose you may guess. But what has become of that child? It disappeared, I know, at the time when your father arrived from Paris--_disappeared_, ha, ha, Frank! Did it not _disappear_ to rise into light again, on the 25th of December, 1844, as the _only child_ of GULIAN VAN HUYDEN? Your father is a bold gamester; he plays with a fearless hand!"
He paced the room, while Frank, listening intently to his words, watched with dumb wonder the delight which gave a new life to his countenance.
"And Cornelius Berman, Frank--" he turned abruptly.
He fell back upon the sofa like a wounded man. It was some moments before he recovered the appearance of calmness.
"A year ago, an artist reduced to poverty, through the agency of Israel Yorke, came to my home to paint my portrait. It was Cornelius Berman. Yorke had employed Buggles as his agent in the affair of the transfer of the property of Cornelius; Buggles the agent was dead indeed, but Yorke appeared upon the scene, as the principal, and sold Cornelius out of house and home. The papers which you took from the dead body of Buggles were only copies; the originals were in the possession of Israel Yorke."
Nameless hid his face in his hands. He did not speak again until many minutes had elapsed.
"And you thought that Cornelius had put Buggles to death?"
"I gathered it from a rumor which has crept through New York for the last two years. The haggard face and wandering eye of the dying artist, who painted my picture, confirmed this impression."
"No; to another house, where I had been placed by my father. He procured a person to represent a southern gentleman, and personate my father. That is, I was represented as the only child of a rich southerner; and in that capacity my picture was painted, and--and--I afterward visited the home of the artist, in a miserable garret, and saw his daughter, who assisted her father, by the humblest kind of work. She was a seamstress--she worked for 'sixteen cents per day.'"
"And she is dead," said Nameless, in a low voice.
"I lost sight of Mary and her father about a year ago, and have since received intelligence of their death."