The lady looked at the card. "Sir Richard Steele, M.D., F.R.S.," and in the corner, "245, Harley Street, W."

"Who is Sir Richard Steele?"

Her visitor came upstairs. He stood before her and bowed.

"I was right," he said. "I remember your face perfectly. But you do not appear to remember me, Lady Woodroffe."

"Indeed, Sir Richard. But if you will refresh my memory——"

"I have to recall to you an incident in your life which happened four and twenty years ago."

"That is a long time ago." So far she suspected nothing.

"Yes; but you cannot have forgotten it. I have called, Lady Woodroffe, against my wish, to remind you of a certain adoption of a child a few days after the death of your own boy, at Birmingham, just about four and twenty years ago. It is impossible that you have forgotten the incident. I see that you have not." For the suddenness of the thing fell upon her like a paralytic stroke. She sat motionless, with parted lips and staring eyes. "You have not forgotten it," he repeated.

"Sir," she said, forcing herself to speak, "you talk of things of which I know nothing. What child? What adoption? Why do you come here with such a story?"

"Let me remind you again. You were passing through Birmingham with your child and an Indian ayah. The child was taken ill, and died. You called at my surgery—I was then a small general practitioner in a poor quarter of Birmingham—you asked me if I could procure a child for adoption. I understood that it was, perhaps, for consolation; I guessed that it was, perhaps, for substitution. You told me that the child was to have light hair and blue eyes; and for age it was to correspond tolerably nearly with that of your own lost child, whose birth-date you gave me—December the 2nd, 1872. I have the date in my note-book. Now do you remember anything about it?"

"Nothing," she replied, with pale face and set lips; "nothing."

"I found you out, only yesterday, by means of this date. I was reminded of the date, and I suspected substitution. I therefore looked through the Red Book, and I came to the name of the present baronet. He was born, it is stated, on December 2, 1872—the exact date on which your own child was born. I looked out your address; I am here. I remember you perfectly. And I now find that my suspicions were correct."

"Do you accuse me of substituting a strange child for my own?" She spoke in words of indignation, but in a voice of terror.

"I merely state what happened—a transaction in which I took part. That is all, so far."

"Where is your proof? I deny everything. Prove what you say."

"It is very easy. I recognize in you the lady who conducted the business with me. I took the child myself to the railway station. I gave the child to the ayah, who took it to the carriage in which you were sitting."

"Proof! What kind of proof is that? You look in the Red Book, you find a date, and you make up a story."

"A man in my position does not make up stories. I am no longer a general practitioner; I am one of the leaders of my profession. I am no longer either obscure or poor. I have nothing whatever to gain by telling this story."

"Then, sir, why do you come to me with it at all?"

"Partly out of curiosity. I was curious to ascertain whether chance had directed me to the right quarter. I am satisfied on that score. Partly I came in order to warn you that the story may possibly be brought to light."

"How? how?"

"Since you are not concerned, it doesn't matter, does it? I may as well go." But he did not move from his chair.

"So far as I am concerned, there is no truth in it."

"In that case, I can do nothing except to tell the person who is inquiring what I know. I can send her to you. Consider again, if you please. There is no reason for me to hide my share in the transaction—not the least. And if you continue to declare that you are not the purchaser of the baby, I am freed from the promise I made at the time, to maintain silence until you yourself shall think fit to release me from my promise."

"Who is inquiring, then?"

"Is the story true?"

The lady hesitated; she quailed. The physician looked her in the face with eyes of authority. His voice was gentle, but his words were strong.

"You must confess," he said, "or I shall leave you. If you continue to deny the fact, I repeat that I shall feel myself absolved from my promise."

"It is true," she murmured, and buried her face in her hands.

"I only wanted the confirmation from your own lips. Now, Lady Woodroffe, be under no anxiety. I hope that this is the only occasion on which we shall discuss a subject naturally painful to you."

She sat without reply, abashed and humiliated.

"I remember," he said, "speaking to you then on the subject of heredity. Let me ask you if the boy has turned out well?"

"No. He turned out badly."

"About his qualities, now. His father was artistic in a way. He could sing, play, and act."

"This boy plays pretty well; he makes things which he calls songs, and smudges which he calls paintings. He is a prig of bad art, and consorts with other young prigs."

"His mother was, I remember, tenacious, honest, and careful."

"The boy is obstinate and ill-conditioned."

"Her qualities in excess. His father was handsome, selfish, and unprincipled."

"The boy is also handsome, selfish, and unprincipled."

"Humph! You speak bitterly, Lady Woodroffe."

"You know what I am, what I write, what I advocate."

"The whole world knows that."

"Imagine, then, what I suffer daily. Oh, how strong must be the force of hereditary vice when it breaks out after such an education!"

"It should make you a little more lenient, Lady Woodroffe. Your last papers on the exceeding wickedness of man would be less severe if you looked at home."

"This is my punishment. I must bear it till I die. But"—she turned sharply on her accomplice—"he must remain where he is. There must be no scandal. I cannot face a scandal. But for that he should have gone, long ago, back to his native kennel."

"Let him remain. No one but you can turn him out."

"Doctor—Sir Richard—can I really trust you?"

"Madam, hundreds of people trust me. I am a father confessor. I know all the little family secrets. This is only one secret the more. It is interesting to me, I confess, partly because I was concerned in the business, and partly because I was curious to know what kind of man would emerge from this boy's birth, and his education, and the general conditions of his life."

"I may rely upon that promise?"

The doctor spread out his hands. "Other people do rely upon my secrecy: why not you?"

"And you will not tell the boy? For that matter, if you tell him, I would just as soon that you told the whole world."

"I have long since promised that I would reveal the matter to no one unless you gave me leave."

She sighed. She leaned her head upon her hand. She sighed again.

"Let it be so," she said. "Consider me, then, as one of your patients. Let me come to you with this trouble of mine, which disturbs me night and day. It is not repentance, because I would do it again and again to shield that good and great man, my late husband, from pain. No; it is not repentance; it is fear of being found out. It is not the dread of seeing this young man turned out of the position he holds—I care nothing about him—it is fear of being found out myself."

"Madam, you can never be found out. There is only one person who knows the lady in question, and that is myself. I have only to continue the attitude which, till yesterday, was literally true—that I knew nothing about the lady, neither her name, nor her place of residence, nor anything at all—and you are perfectly safe. No one can find out the fact; no one even can suspect it."

"How has the question arisen, then? What do you mean by inquirers?"

"There is only one inquirer at present. She is certainly an important inquirer, but she is only one."

"She! Who is it?"

"The mother of the child."

"Quite a common creature, was she not?"

"I don't know what you call common; say undistinguished, born in the lower middle class—a nursery governess, married to a comedian first, and to an American adventurer next, who is now a millionaire. She called upon me, and began to inquire."

"Well, but what does she know?"

"Nothing, except that she parted with her boy when she was poor, and she would give all the world to get him back now that she is rich."

"He would not make her any happier. I can assure her of that."

"Perhaps not. She saw a young man somewhere, who reminded her of her husband. This made her remember things. She heard my name mentioned, and came to see if I was the man she knew in Birmingham."

"And then?"

"All I could say was—truthfully—that I knew nothing about the lady."

"What will she do?"

"I don't know. But she can discover nothing. Believe me, she can do nothing—nothing at all. It was well, however, to warn you—to tell you. The young man she saw may have been your son. It was at the theatre."

"He goes a good deal to the theatre—to see the girls on the stage."

"His true father was also, I believe, inclined that way. The best way, I take it, if I may advise——"

"Pray advise."

"One way, at least, would be to take the bull by the horns and bring them together. When she finds that the young man so like her husband is your son, she will at least make no further investigation in this direction."

"Do what you like," said the lady, sinking back in her chair. "I desire nothing except to avoid a scandal—such a scandal, Sir Richard; it would kill me."

"There shall be no scandal. The secret is mine." Sir Richard rose. "I promise, once more, to keep this secret till you give me permission to reveal it."

"Will you ever have to ask my permission?"

"On my honour, I believe not. I cannot conceive any turn of the wheel which would make such a permission desirable."

"My death, perhaps, might set you free; and it would rid society of a pretender."

"No. For then the scandal would be doubled. Your husband's name would be charged with the thing as well as your own. Rest easy, Lady Woodroffe. I will make her acquainted, however, with the young man."