"No, my children," Alice replied. It was two days later. They were sympathetic children; they would feel for one. "I am not afraid to tell you what troubles me day and night. I am not afraid, but I am ashamed."

"You need not be ashamed," said Molly, stoutly. "Whatever you did must have been well done."

Alice sighed. "I wish I could think so. Sit down, one on each side of me, and I will tell you. Take my hand, Molly dear."

She was lying on a couch. In these days she was troubled with her heart, and lay down a good deal. So lying, with closed eyes, she had the courage to tell her story—the whole of it—suppressing nothing: the terrible sale of her child. She told them all.

"My child was taken away," she concluded. "It was the choice of that for him, or the workhouse. My people would do nothing for me. Partly they were poor—you know them, Molly—and some of them were Methodists, and serious. So I thought of the child's welfare; and I thought I should find my husband with the money, and so—and so——"

"You let him go." Molly finished the sentence.

"I have never known a day's peace since—never a day nor a night without self-reproach. We've prospered—oh, how we've prospered! everything we touch turns to gold! And not a single day of happiness has ever dawned for me, because I meet the reproachful eyes of my boy everywhere!"

"But you gave him to a lady who would treat him well."

"The doctor promised for her. But how am I to know that she has treated him well? If I could only find out where he is! And then came that dream!"

"What dream?"

"It came three times, by which I know that it is a true dream. Three times! Each time as vivid and plain as I see you two. I was sick; I thought I was dying, but I wasn't. And I know, now, that I shall not die without seeing my boy. That I know because, in the dream, some one, I don't know who, pointed to England, and said, 'Go over now—this very year—this fall, and you shall find your boy. If you wait longer, you will never find him.' That was a strange dream to come three times running, wasn't it?"

"Strange. Yes; a very strange dream."

"So we came. John will do anything I ask him. We shall lose—I don't know how much—by coming away. But he came with me. We've been here three weeks. Now listen. First, I found out, by accident, the doctor who took my child away. To be sure, he says he knows nothing more about him, but it is a first step; and now I've found my husband's second son,—that is a second step. And both by accident, that is, both providential. What shall I find next?"

"I think," said Molly, with profound sagacity, "that you should give Dick a free hand, and tell him to search about. You don't know how wise Dick is. He gets his wisdom by tramping at night. Let him think for you, dear. You want some one to think for you."

Mrs. Haveril turned to Dick. "Can you help me, Dick?"

He rose slowly, and began to walk about the room. "Can I? Well, I could try. But I confess the thing seems difficult. It's a new line for me, the detective line. Four and twenty years ago. We don't know who took the child—where she took the child; whether it is still living; whether the lady who took it is living. We want to find the clue."

"Dick," said Molly, "if we had a clue, we shouldn't want your assistance. Find one for us."

He sat down at the piano. "Ideas come this way often." He played a few chords and got up. "Not this morning. Well, let us see. The doctor says he doesn't know. If he doesn't, who can? Who else was there? An Indian ayah. Where is that woman? No mark on the child? No. Nothing put up with the clothes? A rattle. Ah! People don't keep rattles. And a paper with his Christian name. People don't keep such papers. And so the child disappears. How shall we find him after all these years? Have you anything to suggest? Do you suspect anybody in the whole wide world?"

"No. There's only the young man I met at the doctor's. He's so wonderfully like your father, and like you, too. But they say he's the son of some great man. He's bigger than you, Dick. Your mother was a little woman, I should say."

"She was slight, like most American women."

"This young man is tall. Your father was a personable man; and he's big—much like my family. Dick, when I first saw him, my heart went out to him. I thought, 'Oh, my boy must be like you, tall and handsome!'"

"Would it not be better, dear lady, to make up your mind to forget the whole thing? Consider, it is so long ago."

"I would if I could. But I can't. No, Dick, I can never forget it."

"Force yourself to think about something else. It seems so desperately hopeless."

She shook her head. "When you play, my thoughts go out after him, whether I will or not. I am sitting with my son somewhere, or walking with him, or talking with him. I dream of him at night. Perhaps he is dead—because I dream of him so much. But I cannot think of him as dead. Oh, Dick, if you could find my son for me!"

"My dear lady, I will do what I can."

"You must think," said Molly, "morning, noon, and night, about nothing else. Consult your violin; you may whisper it into the piano-case."

"Yes, yes—meantime. It's no use going to see the doctor. He says he doesn't know. But if he called upon the woman at her hotel, he must have inquired for her by name."

"He did not. She came to him."

"Her own child was dead. Did she come to the place before the child died, or after?"

"I cannot tell you."

"Who else was concerned? Let us consider. An Indian ayah. Now, one doesn't bury a child and adopt another child without other people knowing it. You can't do it—servants must know. Perhaps the child was substituted. That has been done, I believe. But servants must know the secret. Then there are the undertakers who buried the child; the place where it is buried. If we knew the name of the child, I believe it would be easy, after all, to trace it. Then there is the place where the child died; it isn't often that a child dies in a hotel. There are the doctors who attended the child—they might remember the case. If we only knew the name of the child! Without that, we are powerless."

"I told you, Dick," said Molly, "that we want you to find the clue. If we knew the name of the child, we could go on quite easily without you."

"Very likely," he continued.

"There was no concealment; it was an open adoption known to everybody concerned, who were only three people."

"Then, why did the lady conceal her name?"

"She was probably anxious that the child should not know his relations at all. Perhaps, Dick, if you were to go away and think for a bit," Molly insisted.

"Oh yes; presently! Meantime there is one very simple way. Will you spend some money?"

"John will let you spend as much as you please."

"Very well, then." He sat down and took pen and paper. "The most simple way is to advertise. Let the world know what you want. Offer a reward. Same as for a lost dog. What do you think of this?—

I will receive the letters."

"But the reward?"

"I am coming to that, Molly.

There, Molly, what do you think of that?"

It might have been observed that neither then, nor afterwards, did Richard consult Mrs. Haveril. He took the conduct of the case into his own hands and Molly's.

"Dick! I knew you were awfully clever. I think it a splendid way!"

As if such a thing as an advertisement was entirely novel and previously unknown.

"Yes," said Dick, contemplating the document with pride, "I flatter myself that it is a good idea. Looks well on paper, doesn't it?" He held it at arm's length to catch the noontide sun. "'Whereas'—there's a legal 'note,' as they say, about it. Well, now, Molly, let us see how this will work. If the adoption was real, somebody must know of it—whether the lady is living or dead. Then we shall get a reply in a day or two——"

"In a day or two! Alice! Think of that!"

"If it was a substitution, we shall get no reply from the lady; but then, we may expect that other people know about it—servants and such. Then the reward comes in."

"Oh, isn't he clever, Alice? In a week—at least—you shall have your boy."

"Now I go," Dick concluded, with one more admiring glance at the paper before he folded it up, "and put the advertisement in the leading papers all over the country, and keep it going for a week, unless we hear something. Let us live in hope meantime."

Sir Robert read the advertisement over his breakfast. "Ah!" he said. "She has found an adviser; she means business; she will spend money. What is the good? She can just prove nothing. I am the master of the situation."

Yet there remained an uneasiness. For, although he was the master of the situation, it might be at the cost of declaring—or swearing in a court—that he still knew nothing as to the name and position and residence of the lady.

Lady Woodroffe read the advertisement as well. One of her secretaries pointed it out to her as an interesting item in the day's news. She read it; she held the paper before her face to hide a guilty pallor; her heart sank low: the dreadful thing was already in the papers. Soon, perhaps, it would appear again, with her name attached to it.

Next morning a letter was received by the advertiser. It enclosed the advertisement, cut out of a paper, with these words, "You need not advertise any more. The child has been dead for twenty years."

"Now"—Richard read the letter twice before he began to think about it—"what does this mean? If it was adoption, why not come forward? If it was substitution, then the child may be dead or he may not. I don't think he is, for my part. I believe it is a try-on to make us give over. We shall not give over, dear madam."

He continued the advertisement, therefore, for another week. Yet there came no more letters and no discovery.

"Oh, Dick, and I have been waiting day after day!"

"We must change the advertisement. The anonymous letter proves pretty clearly that there is reason for concealment. Else, why did not the writer sign her name? It was in a lady's handwriting—not a servant's. The adoption, therefore, to put it kindly, was not generally known. Let us alter the advertisement. We will now put in a few more details. We will leave the mother out; and we will no longer address the lady."

In consequence of this resolution, the following advertisement appeared next day:—

I dare say that many of my readers will remember the interest—nay, the racket—created by the appearance of this strange series of advertisements, which were never explained. The mystery is still referred to as an illustration of romance in upper circles. Some of the American papers quoted it as another proof of the profligacy of an aristocracy, concluding that it was the substitution of a gutter child for the Scion of a Baronial Stock.

This time there were shoals of answers. They came by hundreds; they came from all parts of the country. One would think that adoption by purchase was a recognized form of creating heirs to an estate. One railway porter wrote from Birmingham, stating that he remembered the affair perfectly well, because the lady gave him sixpence; that he saw the lady into the carriage, carrying the baby, which was dressed in white clothes with a woollen thing over its face; that on receipt of travelling money, and a trifle of £5 on account, he would run up to London and identify the baby. Another person conveyed the startling intelligence that she herself was the mother of the child; that she could tell by whom it was adopted. "My child," she said, "is now a belted earl. But my conscience upbraids me. Better a crust with the reward, than the pricks of a guilty conscience."

A third wrote with the warmth of a man of the world. Did the advertiser believe that he was such a juggins as to give away the story without making sure of the reward? If so—— But the writer preferred to think that he was dealing with a man of honour as well as a man of business—therefore he would propose a sure and certain plan. There must be in delicate affairs a certain amount of confidence on both sides. The writer knew the whole history, which was curious and valuable, and concerned certain noble houses; he had the proofs in his hands: he was prepared to send up the story, with the proofs, which nobody could question after once reading them, by return of post. But there must be some show of confidence on both sides. For himself, he was ready to confide in their promise to pay the reward. Let them confide to some extent in him. A mere trifle would do—the twentieth part of the reward—say a hundred pounds. Let the advertiser send this sum to him in registered letter, care of the Dog and Duck, Aston Terrace, Birmingham, in ten-pound notes, and by return post would follow the proofs.

Or if, as might happen—the writer thought it best in such matters to be extremely prudent—the advertiser did not trust this plan, he had a brother in a respectable way in a coffee-house and lodgings for single men, Kingsland Road. Let the money be deposited in his hands, to be held until the proofs and vouchers had been received. Nothing could be fairer than the proposal.

And so on. And so on. Richard greatly enjoyed these letters. Human faces, he said, may differ; legs are long or short; eyes are straight or skew; but the human mind, when two thousand pounds are involved, is apparently always the same. Meantime, which was disappointing, he was not a bit advanced in his inquiry.

Sir Robert read this advertisement as well. "She is well advised," he said. "She's going the right way to work. They calculate that servants know, and they offer a big reward. If that doesn't fetch them, there'll be a bigger. But it's no good—it's no good. Nobody knows what I know."

He thought it best, however, to reassure Lady Woodroffe.

"I hoped," he said, "that we should have no further occasion to speak about a certain transaction. I suppose, however, that you have heard of certain advertisements?"

"I have. Do you think——?"

"I do not think. Nay, I am certain. Lady Woodroffe, remember that there is only one person who knows the two women engaged in that transaction. I stood between them. I am not going to bring them together unless you desire me to do so. I came to say this, in case you should be in the least degree uneasy."

"Thank you, Sir Robert," she answered humbly. She trusted in that square-jawed, beetle-browed man; yet she was humiliated. "I certainly confide in you."

He got up. "Then I will waste your time no longer. You are always at work—I see and read and hear—always at work—good works—good works."

Her lips parted, but she was silent. Did he mean a reflection on the one work that had not been quite so good? But he was gone.

The advertisement was repeated in all the papers. England, Scotland, Ireland, the Colonies, knew about this adoption, and the anxiety of the mother to recover her son.

At this stage of the investigation, the subject began to be generally talked about. The newspapers had leading articles on the general subject of adoption. It was an opportunity for the display of classical scholarship; of mediÆval scholarship; of historical scholarship; cases of pretence, of substitution, are not uncommon. There are noble houses about which things are whispered—things which must not be bruited abroad. The subject of adoption, open or concealed, proved fertile and fruitful to the leader-writer. One man, for instance, projected himself in imagination into the situation, and speculated on the effect which would be produced on a young man of culture and fine feeling, of finding out, at five and twenty, that he belonged to quite another family, with quite another set of traditions, prejudices, and ideas. Thus a young man born in the purple, or near it; brought up in great respect for birth, connections, and family history, with a strong prejudice in favour of an aristocratic caste; suddenly discovers that his people belong to the lowest grade of those who can call themselves of the middle class, and that he has no kind of connection with the folk to whom he has always believed himself attached. What would be the effect upon an educated and a sensitive mind? What would be the effect upon his affections? How would he regard his new mother—probably a vulgar old woman—or his new brothers and sisters—probably preposterous in their vulgarity? What effect would the discovery have upon his views of life? What upon his politics? What upon his opinions as to small trade, and the mean and undignified and sordid employments by which the bulk of mankind have to live?

At dinner-tables people talked about this mysterious adoption. What could it mean? Why did not the lady come forward? Was it, as some of the papers argued, clearly a case of fraudulent substitution? If not, why did she not come forward? She was dead, perhaps. If so, why did not some one else come forward? If, however, it really was a case of substitution, then the position was intelligible. For instance, the case quoted the day before yesterday by the Daily News; that was, surely, a similar case. And so on; all the speakers wise with the knowledge derived from yesterday's paper. Are we sufficiently grateful to our daily papers and our leader-writers, for providing us with subjects of conversation?

The subject was handled with great vigour one night at Lady Woodroffe's own table. Sir Robert was present; he argued, with ability, that there was no reason to suppose any deception at all; that in his view, the lady had adopted the child, and had resolved to bring up the child in complete ignorance of its relatives, who were presumably of the lowlier sort; that she had seen no reason to take her servants into her confidence, or her friends; and that she now saw no reason to let the young man learn who his real relations were. And he drew a really admirable sketch of the disgust with which the young man would receive his new cousins. Lady Woodroffe, while this agreeable discussion was continued, sat at the head of her table, calm, pale, and collected.

Then there appeared a third advertisement. It was just like the second, except that it now raised the reward to ten thousand guineas. It also included the fact that the child had been received at the Birmingham station by an Indian ayah.

This advertisement caused searchings of heart in all houses where there had been at any time an Indian ayah. The suggestion in every one of these houses was that a child had died, and another had been substituted. The matter was discussed in the servants' hall at Lady Woodroffe's. The butler had been in service with Sir Humphrey and his household for thirty years.

"I came home," he said, "from India with Sir Humphrey. We came to this house. My lady and the ayah—she that died six or seven years ago—were already here with the child—now Sir Humphrey."

"Did you know the child again?"

"Know the child? I'd know Sir Humphrey's child anywhere. Why, I saw him every day till he was six months old. A lovely child he was, with his light hair and his blue eyes."

"Did my lady come from Birmingham?"

"What would my lady be doing at Birmingham? She came straight through from Scotland from her noble pa, Lord Dunedin. The ayah told us so."

The page, who was listening, resigned, with a sigh, the prospect of getting that reward of ten thousand guineas.

Lady Woodroffe, upstairs, read the third advertisement, and grew faint and sick with fear.

Sir Robert read the advertisement. "Very good," he said. "Very good indeed. But if there had been any one who knew anything at all, there would have been an answer to the offer of two thousand pounds. Let them offer a million, if they like."

"Dick," said Molly, "it seemed very clever at first. But, you see, nothing has come of it."

"On the contrary, something has come of it. Mind you, the whole world is talking about the case. If it was a genuine adoption, the unknown woman would certainly have come forward."

"Why?"

"Because there could be no reason for concealment. As it is, she remains silent. Why? Because there has been substitution instead of adoption. She has put forward another baby in the place and in the name of the dead child."

"How can you prove that?"

"I don't know, Molly. I believe I have missed my vocation. I am a sleuth-hound. Give me a clue; put me on the scent, and let me rip."

His face hardened; his features grew sharper; his eyes keener; he bent his neck forward; he was no longer the musician; he was the bloodhound looking for the scent. The acting instinct in him made him while he spoke adapt his face and his expression to the new part he played. To look the part is, if you consider, essential.