In the early twilight of a July evening in the year 1875, two young
Americans, neither dreaming of the other's presence, came face to face
on the steps of a hotel on the Quai du Montblanc at Geneva. The two men,
one of whom was so bronzed by Eastern suns that his friend looked pallid
beside him, exchanged a long, incredulous stare; then their hands met,
and the elder cried out, "Of all men in the world!"

"Flemming!" exclaimed the other eagerly; "I thought you were in Egypt."

"So I was, a month ago. What are you doing over here, Ned?"

"I don't know, to tell the truth."

"You don't know!" laughed Flemming. "Enjoying yourself, I suppose."

"The supposition is a little rash," said Edward Lynde. "I have been over
nearly a year--quite a year, in fact. After uncle David's death"--

"Poor old fellow! I got the news at Smyrna."

"After he was gone, and the business of the estate was settled, I turned
restless at Rivermouth. It was cursedly lonesome. I hung on there
awhile, and then I came abroad."

"A rich man--my father wrote me. I have had no letter's from you. Your
uncle treated you generously, Ned."

"Did he not always treat me generously?" said Lynde, with a light coming