Once removed from the presence of the great lady and the overwhelming authority of her manner, her voice, and her face, Richard began to consider the situation over again. The lady denied any knowledge of the fact. He might have expected it. Why, how could such a woman, in such a position, face the world, and confess to having committed so great a crime? He ought to have known that it was impossible. So he cursed himself for an ass; steadied his nerves with the reflection that she had done the thing, whatever she might say; considered that people can always be found to believe great and solid and shameless liars; and remarked with humiliation that on the very first occasion in his life, when he wanted dignity to meet dignity, and authority to meet authority, he had come to grief.

"Serious comedy, however"—by way of consolation—"is not my line."

In the evening, after dinner, he repaired to the hotel, but not with the triumphal step which he had promised himself.

Molly was reading a letter aloud to Alice. "Dick," she cried, "perhaps you can explain what this means. It has just arrived."

"What is the meaning of this letter, Dick?" Molly repeated. "What is this entry that she talks about?"

"Molly, I thought I was coming home with a discovery that was a clincher. And I believe I've gone and muddled the thing."

"Well, but tell us."

He told them.

"But what more do we want?" asked Molly. "The child that died was hers."

"So I believe—I am sure. I remember how she took it—and her lies, and her pretences, and her rage. It wasn't the wrath of an innocent woman, Molly; it was the wrath of a woman found out and driven to bay. I am sure of it."

"Then what does she mean by this letter?"

"It's her reply. It means defiance."

"Ought we to go, then?"

"I don't know. I think that I was wrong to go. But that may make it right for Alice to go."

Alice did go. She took Molly with her because she wanted support. She went filled with doubt. The woman's letter was confident and braggart; but there was the discovery of the child's death, and there was the resemblance. She came away, as you shall see, in certainty, yet more in doubt than before.

They found themselves in a room in which not only the refinement which may be purchased of an artistic decorator is visible, but the refinement which can only be acquired by many generations of wealth and position and good breeding. Books, pictures, curtains, carpets, furniture,—all bore witness to the fact that the tenant was a gentlewoman. The Anglo-American, born and brought up in the poverty of London clerkery; accustomed to the bare surroundings of poverty in the Western States; able to command, after many years, and to enjoy, the flaunting luxury of a modern hotel; felt with a sense of sinking, that her son—if this was her son—must have been brought up with social advantages which she could never have given him. On the table lay a small bundle tied up with a towel; curiously out of place this simple bundle looked among the things beautiful and precious of this drawing-room. You know how a little matter will sometimes revive an old recollection. What had this parcel wrapped in a towel to do with that time, twenty-four years ago, when the mother, broken-hearted, laid her child in the arms of the doctor who carried it into the railway station? Yet she was reminded of that moment—that special moment—in the history of her bereavement. To be sure, the mind of the woman was easily turned to this subject. It possessed her; she could think of nothing else, except when Molly came to talk and sing to her.

The door was opened and a lady came in. She was not dressed in nearly so costly a manner as her visitor, but her appearance impressed. She was a great lady in manner and in appearance. She was also gracious. Though a speaker on platforms, an advocate of many causes, she was still feminine and dignified.

She produced the effect which she desired without apparent effort. She carried in her hand a bundle of letters and papers. She bowed to her visitors.

"It is very good of you," she said, "to come. If you will excuse me one minute——" She sat down and touched a hand-bell. It was answered by a young lady. "These are the letters," said Lady Woodroffe. "I have indicated the replies. You can let me have them at six." Then she turned to Alice again. "You will forgive a busy woman, I am sure," she said. "I am for the moment greatly occupied with rescue work of all kinds. It is a beautiful thing to snatch even one poor woman from a life of crime."

One may observe that she received Alice as she had received Richard—with a great show of important philanthropic work. The effect produced was not quite the same, because Alice was thinking of something else, and to Molly it was only good play-acting. She was not in the least impressed by the presence or the authority. She only considered that the business was well done.

Lady Woodroffe finished. "Now," she said, smiling sweetly, "we will begin to talk."

"I have brought my cousin, Miss Pennefather," said Alice. "She knows why I am here."

"Oh yes!" Lady Woodroffe recognized Molly's presence with the inclination which asserts a higher place. "Shall we take some tea first?"

She was disappointed in the appearance of the woman who claimed her son. One expects of a woman who would sell her baby a face of brass and eyes of bronze; one expects vulgarity in a highly pronounced form—perhaps with ostrich feathers. She came in expectant of a battle with a red-faced, over-dressed female. She found a woman dressed quietly, yet in costly stuffs, a pale face, delicate features; no sign of the commoner forms of vulgarity; a woman of apparent refinement. Of course, we all know that a person may be refined yet not a gentlewoman. Many there are who take comfort in that reflection.

She rang the bell for tea and began to talk. "It is very good of you to come," she began. "Tell me, have you been long in the old country? Do you find it altered since you left it—so long ago? I believe you are not an American by birth. Have you any children? Do you soon return to the States?"

She went on without paying much attention to Mrs. Haveril's replies.

"I hear that your husband is a millionaire. We shall soon begin to think that all Americans are millionaires. It must be strange to have unlimited command of money. I am sure you will do a great deal of good with it. The sense of responsibility when there is so much waiting to be done must be overwhelming. Here in this country we are all so poor—so very poor. We have our country houses, you know, which are very fine houses—some of them, and our parks and gardens. But then, you see, the houses and gardens cost so much to keep up, and our farms remain unlet. However ... here is the tea."

Then she plunged into the subject. "My dear lady," she began. "I do assure you that I feel for you. It is the most extraordinary case that I have ever heard of. I believe, if I remember right, there is an account of a woman in BÉranger's Autobiography, who had made her baby a foundling, and spent the rest of her life in looking for him, and became mad in consequence. Do let me implore you not to begin looking for your boy; the case is hopeless—you will never succeed—you will only make the rest of your life miserable. It is quite impossible that you should ever find him, and if you did find him, it is utterly impossible that you should be able to prove that he is your child. You will, I assure you, heap disappointments and miseries upon your head."

Alice said nothing. Lady Woodroffe glanced at Molly. She was looking straight before her, apparently quite unmoved.

"Now let us argue the point calmly and quietly. You see a resemblance—you jump to a conclusion. Now, first, as regards the resemblance. There is a very remarkable family resemblance among many of the Woodroffes. Three cousins, at least—Miss Hilarie Woodroffe, whom you know, perhaps; my son; and this Mr. Richard Woodroffe, who appears to be a play actor of some kind—claim kinship after five hundred years—five hundred years. They met by accident in the old church of the family—they made acquaintance—both young men curiously resemble the young lady——"

"It isn't only the face," said Alice; "it's the voice, and the eyes, and the manner. My husband had most beautiful manners when he chose."

"On the stage, I believe, they learn to assume some kind of manners, supposed to be those of society, when they choose. My son, however, always chooses to have beautiful manners. But we must, I am sure you will admit, take into account differences as well as resemblances. For instance, I gather from the whole history that your husband was, in some respects, especially those which most touch a wife's sense of wrong—a—what we call a wretch—a disgraceful person."

"He was. He deserted me. He divorced me. He married an American actress. He deserted her. Richard Woodroffe is his second son."

"My son is quite the reverse. He is a young man of the highest principle and of perfectly blameless character."

Molly smiled, looking straight before her.

"Again, your husband, I believe, was a low comedian—a singer, a dancer, a buffoon—anything."

"He was a general utility actor. Sometimes he had a variety entertainment."

"Humphrey, my son, has no talent for acting at all; like his father, he would conceive it beneath the dignity of a gentleman to make merriment for his friends."

Alice sighed. Molly sat looking straight before her, either unmoved or unconcerned.

"Another point. Was your husband a bookish man?"

"No; he was not. He never opened a book."

"My son is essentially studious, especially in the history of Art."

Molly smiled again, but said nothing. To call Humphrey studious was, perhaps, stretching the truth; but there certainly were the rows of French novels.

"Now, my dear madam, I will ask you to set these points down side by side. That is to say, on one side resemblance in face, real or imaginary; on the other side dignity, good breeding—hereditary breeding, a constitutional gravity of carriage, studious habits, ambition, a total absence of the acting faculty. I ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from your husband? As we are here alone, I would ask you which of these qualities he could inherit from you?"

She paused for a reply. There was none. Alice looked at Molly and sighed. Molly smiled and looked straight before her.

"I do not say these things offensively," Lady Woodroffe continued, in soft and persuasive accents. "My sole desire is to send you away convinced that my son cannot possibly—cannot under any possibility—under any imaginable possibility—be your son. To return to the points of difference. I will ask you one more question. Was your husband a man of unselfish habits and even temper?"

"He was not."

Lady Woodroffe smiled. "I am sorry to hear it, for your sake. My son, on the other hand, is absolutely unselfish, and always sweet-tempered."

She looked sharply at the girl. Why did she smile? What did she mean? What did she know about Humphrey? However, Lady Woodroffe went on, still bland and gracious—

"Do not delude yourself any longer, madam. For the sake of your own peace and quiet, put it away from you. Oh, this dreadful delusion will possess you more and more! You will yearn more and more for the possession of the son you have lost. Your mind will become so filled with this delusion that you will be able to think about nothing else. It will drive you to some desperate act; it will poison your daily life; it will turn your wealth into a heavy burden. I implore you, for the sake of those you love, to abandon this baseless belief."

"Oh! If you only knew! If you only knew!"

The tears rose to the eyes of the woman who sought her son.

"After all these years, I thought I had found him again. I recognized him at the theatre and at the doctor's dinner."

"My poor dear lady"—again Lady Woodroffe took her hands and soothed her—"it was indeed strange that you should find such a resemblance. As I told you, see how impossible it is to find anything out. Nevertheless, if I can be of any help to you, I will willingly do all I can. Only, my advice is that you let bygones sleep, and remain contented with the wonderful gifts that Heaven has poured into your lap. To desire more is surely a sin."

"I would give them all to the first beggar in the street, if I could only get back the boy."

"We will suppose"—Lady Woodroffe got up and stood before the fireplace, looking down upon her visitor, who was now trembling and tearful—"we will suppose, I say, that you take some steps. I hardly know what steps you can take. Would you go to a lawyer? Perhaps. Would you go to my son? Perhaps. In either case the evidence will be examined. On your side a fancied resemblance. Why"—she pointed to a portrait on the wall—"that is my husband at the age of thirty. Whose eyes, whose face, whose hair, do you see in that portrait? Is it, or is it not, like my son?" There really was a strong resemblance. Lady Woodroffe, however, did not explain that she had copied it herself from an early portrait, perhaps with additions and slight alterations. "This portrait alone will meet the case. Besides—a chance resemblance—again—what is it?"

Alice shook her head sadly. She was shaken in her faith.

"Next, you find an entry in a register. Who made that entry? You do not know. Why? You cannot tell."

"Yet Mr. Woodroffe says——"

"Never mind Mr. Woodroffe. Listen to what I say. You then come forward yourself, and you tell the very disgraceful story of how you sold your own child—your own boy. Oh, a terrible—a shameful story!"

"Who was the child that died?" Molly put a word for the first time.

"Who was that child? I cannot tell you. Some one, for purposes unknown, chose to represent a dead child as my husband's child. I say that I do not choose to offer any explanation of this personation. I will tell you, however, how Mr. Woodroffe explains it, which you know already."

She waited for a reply. There was none.

"He supposes that the child was my child; and he supposes, next, that the person who bought your child was myself. That is what he calls certainty."

"Who was the child, then?" Molly repeated.

"Even supposing that my own child died at Birmingham, which is absolutely false—how will you connect the dead child's mother with the transaction which followed?"

"I don't know." Alice looked to Molly for support, and found none. Molly sat with cold, impassive face.

"When you have made it quite clear that you sold your child, you have then to fix your crime upon me as well. How will you do it? For I have letters showing where I was. The dates prove that I could not be in Birmingham at the time; they prove also that I was at my father's house in Scotland with my boy. Now, what have you got to say?"

"I want my son."

"Find your son," she replied, with a touch of temper. "He will be proud indeed of his mother when you do find him!"

Alice shuddered.

"I can do nothing to get that delusion out of your mind, then?"

"I want my son."

The woman's face was obstinate. She had left off crying and shaking; her eyes were fierce, her pale face was set; she meant fighting. The interview had been a failure.

"Who was the child that died?" Molly's question made all clear and plain again.

In moments of great and serious importance we think of little things. Lady Woodroffe saw, in this set and serious face, in the lines of her mouth, in the determination of the eyes, something that reminded her of Humphrey. She should have asked the woman what other qualities, apart from those she had enumerated, he might have inherited from her.

She was now certain that the interview was a failure. No persuasion, no soft words, could prevail against the certainty in this woman's mind.

"I want my son," she repeated.

Lady Woodroffe turned to Molly. "You have heard everything," she said. "What is your opinion, Miss——? I did not catch your name."

"We must find out who that child was—the dead child," Molly replied, with tenacity.

"Then we will talk no more." She smiled again, but showed her teeth. She then did the boldest thing in her power, a thing which deliberately confessed the truth and bade them defiance. Like every bold stroke, it was a stroke of genius. Yet, like every stroke of genius, perhaps it was a mistake. For she had brought down the very clothes in which the child had come to her. And now she showed them to the mother, and claimed them for her own. "I am only going to delay you one minute, Mrs. Haveril. It is a foolish thing, perhaps; but it is an appeal to sentiment. I suppose that there is nothing a woman treasures more than her son's baby-clothes. I am going to show you a bundle of things that I made with my own hands, for my baby—mine—woman—do you hear?"—with the real ring of temper—"mine!

"These things"—she untied the towel slowly—"are my son's clothes when he was about twelve months of age. They are made of quite common materials, after the old Scotch fashion. The very things I made myself—with my own hands—for the child." She laid back the corners of the towel. She took up the things one by one. "His frock—he had gone into short frocks—his flannel, his shirt, his socks, his shoes, his cap." She held them up, and she looked at her visitor with mockery in her eyes and defiance in her words. "My things—that I made. You would like to have the baby-clothes of your own son—whom you sold—would you not?"

Alice started and sprang to her feet, gazing upon the baby-clothes.

"You see," Lady Woodroffe went on coldly and calmly, as if every word was not a lie, "the work is not very fine. There is his name in marking-ink. I did this embroidery. I made everything except his socks and his shoes. There is his rattle." It was a cheap common thing. "Here is his little cap. You have made such things, Mrs. Haveril, I dare say, for your child—the child you sold. I thought I would show them to you, to prove better than any words of mine, that my child is my own."

"Oh!" It was the scream of a tigress. "Oh, mine—mine—mine!" Mrs. Haveril threw herself literally over the clothes. She clutched and dragged them, and with quick fingers huddled them into the towel again and tied the corners. "Mine!" she repeated, standing up again, her hand on the bundle. "Mine!" Her voice was like a roar of rage, sunk down deep and low and rough—not like her customary voice, which was gentle and sweet. "Mine!" She held the bundle to her heart.

Molly rose at this point and laid her hand on her cousin's shoulder.

"Keep quiet, dear—keep quiet! Let us leave this house." She turned to Lady Woodroffe. "It is a house of lies."

Lady Woodroffe looked at her as if she were not present, and had not spoken.

"The delusion is stronger than I thought," she said, affecting surprise and wonder.

Alice recovered and stood up, still holding the things to her heart.

"Oh," she cried, panting and gasping, "you are a bad woman! a false woman!"

"For Heaven's sake," said Molly, "keep quiet! You have said enough. Think of yourself."

"I had better ring the bell, I think." Lady Woodroffe laid her finger on the knob, but refrained to press it.

"Oh! What can I say?"

"Say nothing, dear," said Molly.

"Will you give me back those things?" Lady Woodroffe moved as if she would take them. "No? Then keep them. After all I have—my son—mine—my son. That is the main thing."

"I made these things—every one—I made them. See, Molly—here is the very paper I wrote. I pinned it to his little frock." She kissed the frock. "'His name is Humphrey.' I wrote it. His father said there was always a Humphrey in the family. I wrote that paper—now!"

Lady Woodroffe smiled sadly. "Poor creature! But perhaps you had better go at once."

"Where is my son?"

"I have done my best to relieve you of a most remarkable delusion. You reward me by robbing me of my child's things. I cannot fight you for them, and I do not like to make my servants take them by force. Keep them."

She rang the bell.

"They are my things."

Lady Woodroffe continued to follow her movements with eyes of compassion.

"It is indeed wonderful!" she murmured. "All this great fortune! And this most miserable delusion to spoil it!"

Alice moved towards the door. She was trembling. She leaned upon Molly. She clung to the bundle. She turned.

"You have given my son back to me. I want no further proof."

Molly bore her down the stairs, as she retired, with some loss of dignity, her face tearful, her cheek flushed, but clutching the bundle.

"Now she knows the whole," said Lady Woodroffe. "And I defy her to move a step. She may look at the boy from afar off." She rang her hand-bell, and called her secretary, and resumed her struggle against sin.