y. He never was confronted by the real Fowler. There was
no danger of exposure by others--the one custodian of his secret, Tom
Flynn, died in Nevada the year following. He had quite forgotten his
youthful past, and even the more recent lucky portmanteau; remembered
nothing, perhaps, but the pretty face of the daguerreotype that had
fascinated him. There seemed to be no reason why he should not live and
die as Shelby Fowler.

His business a year later took him to Europe. He was entering a train
at one of the great railway stations of London, when the porter, who
had just deposited his portmanteau in a compartment, reappeared at the
window followed by a young lady in mourning.

"Beg pardon, sir, but I handed you the wrong portmanteau. That belongs
to this young lady. This is yours."

Flint glanced at the portmanteau on the seat before him. It certainly
was not his, although it bore the initials "S. F." He was mechanically
handing it back to the porter, when his eyes fell on the young lady's
face. For an instant he stood petrified. It was the face of the
daguerreotype. "I beg pardon," he stammered, "but are these your
initials?" She hesitated, perhaps it was the abruptness of the question,
but he saw she looked confused.

"No. A friend's."

She disappeared into another carriage, but from that moment Harry Flint
knew that he had no other aim in life but to follow this clue and the
beautiful girl who had dropped it. He bribed the guard at the next
station, and discovered that she was going to York. On their arrival,
he was ready on the platform to respectfully assist her. A few words
disclosed the fact that she was a fellow-countrywoman, although residing
in England, and at present on her way to join some friends at Harrogate.
Her name was West. At the mention of his, he again fancied she looked
disturbed.

They met again and again; the informality of his introduction was
overlooked by her friends, as his assumed name was already respectably
and responsibly known beyond California. He thought no more of his
future. He was in love. He even dared to think it might be returned; but
he felt he had no right to seek that knowledge until he had told her his
real name and how he came to assume another's. He did so alone--scarcely
a month after their first meeting. To his alarm, she burst into a flood
of tears, and showed an agitation that seemed far beyond any apparent
cause. When she had partly recovered, she said, in a low,