Richard Woodroffe walked away with hanging head. A second time he had learned that his proofs might not be so convincing, after all. The defence set up by a woman of the highest social position, character, and personal influence, that she had never been in Birmingham in her life, that on the day of the alleged death of her child she was in Scotland, that she knew nothing of the person who was said to have assumed her name, could only be met by evidence concerning that person by an identification of that person with Lady Woodroffe by an old man, speaking of an event of four and twenty years ago, and by an alleged resemblance; as to the packet of clothes, that would certainly be no evidence at all. He himself was perfectly certain of the fact; there was no doubt left in his own mind. But would his proofs be accepted in a court of justice?

As he walked along with these heavy reflections, he was startled by a hand upon his shoulder—a thing which, in former times, caused the sufferer to swoon with terror, because it was the familiar greeting of the sheriff's officer, the man with a writ. That part of the officer's duty is now, however, gone. It was, in fact, the hand of Sir Robert Steele, who, his day's work finished, was taking the air.

"Dick," he cried, "I haven't seen you since—since—when?"

"Since the day when you made a study of heredity."

"Oh, you mean when you dined with me? Yes, Dick, my boy, I have heard things about you—the Strange Adventures of a Singer."

"Of course you have. Lady Woodroffe has told you."

"How you are fishing in troubled waters, and catching nothing. Yes, I have seen Mrs. Haveril—a most interesting woman; but she ought to go home and keep quiet. Keep her quiet, Dick. Put down your fishing-rod, and make that good lady sit down, and keep that good lady quiet."

"I will as soon as I have restored her son to her. We have found him, you know."

"You tell me so. You think it is Sir Humphrey Woodroffe, is it not?"

"We are perfectly certain it is. Lady Woodroffe has told you, I dare say, what we have done."

"Something—something. You are working, no doubt, in the interests of the second baronet?"

"Yes, oh yes." Dick grinned. "He is my half-brother, you know. I am anxious to restore him to his real rank, which is mine. He shall become what he is pleased to describe me—an outsider and a cad."

"Two Cains and no Abel. A slaughterous pair. Well, have you proved your case yet?"

"To our own satisfaction, perfectly. To the complete satisfaction of the world as soon as the story is told. For lawyers—well—there is one point lacking."

"That one point! That one point! Always that one point! It is like connecting your family with illustrious ancestry—always the one point wanting. I need not ask what that point is."

"No, because you are the person who can supply the link."

"Is that so?" asked the doctor, dryly. "Then, while you are waiting for that link, my dear Richard, I advise you to tie up your papers and go back to legitimate business." He stopped, because they were arrived at his own door. "Come in," he said. "Now then, my dear boy, sit down and let us have it out. First of all, however, understand that you cannot establish that link. You say that I am the only person who can supply it. Well, if that is so, remember that I shall not."

"You mean, will not."

"Just as you like. The distinction between will and shall is sometimes too subtle for the rules of syntax."

"But, my dear Sir Robert, just consider what a lot I can prove. Lady Woodroffe goes to a hotel in Birmingham. She drives in hurriedly; her child is ill. She sends for a medical man. She takes two bedrooms and a sitting-room. She has an ayah. The medical man stays with her the whole night. In the morning the child dies——"

"How do you know all these things?"

"By the note-book of the man who was called in, by the books of the hotel, by the evidence of the medical man himself, by the evidence of a waiter who remembers the case, by the register of deaths."

"All this looks strong, I admit."

"So that we can actually prove the death of Sir Humphrey's only son. And we can call upon Lady Woodroffe to inform us who is the man calling himself Sir Humphrey's only son."

"You prove that a woman calling herself Lady Woodroffe did all these things."

"And we can produce a witness who will swear to her identity."

"After all these years I doubt if you could—if that evidence would be received. I admit that you have a case. As it is, you could make a cause cÉlÈbre. You are able to make things horribly uncomfortable for Lady Woodroffe; and you are able to inspire the young man, her son, with a lively animosity against yourself."

"I don't mind that in the least. I shall go and see him. I shall say, 'You are my half-brother. You are first cousin to a collection of common folk, whose commonness will rejoice your heart. I will introduce you to them. You shall take tea with them—the tea of shrimps, periwinkles, and watercress, that you have yet to learn—and to love.' I shall exhaust myself in congratulations."

"With the domestic affections I never interfere. Here, however, is a difficulty. You say 'we' will do this and that. Who is 'we'? You yourself? Suppose you spring all this upon the world? And suppose nobody takes any notice?"

"I may advertise the whole history, and offer a reward for the discovery of the identification of the woman."

"But nobody can identify Lady Woodroffe."

"My old doctor——"

"Your old doctor would break down. Lady Woodroffe has only to deny absolutely that she is the woman. Counsel can always suggest—man in India—another woman—assumption of name—real wife with her father, Lord Dunedin—letters to prove it—old nobleman swears it. Venerable old nobleman—ever seen him?—rather like Abraham."

"Well, we shall find some way of forcing the history upon the public. And a certain event has just happened which may give me an opportunity."

"What is that?"

"My father is dead. He died yesterday. He was also Humphrey's father."

"Oh, I am sorry."

"No one need express any sorrow on that account. As he left my mother when I was a baby, I have never seen him. I did not know that he was in England. It appears that he has been a sandwich-man for some time. And he died in a pauper infirmary. As for myself, I feel neither shame nor grief; he was to me, as to you, a stranger. But perhaps I can use the event in order to give publicity to our story, if we must court publicity."

"Well, let us hope—— But go on."

"As for Lady Woodroffe, she has actually confessed the thing."

He then proceeded to tell the story of the child's clothes.

The doctor became thoughtful. The audacity of showing and claiming the clothes astonished him.

"It isn't evidence, Dick," he said.

"No; but it's complete proof to the true mother."

"Perhaps—to her."

Sir Robert, in fact, admitted everything. But at this stage a mere admission of the kind meant nothing.

"It was a strange thing to do," said the doctor. "There is the audacity of despair about it. She had quite forgotten the fact that the register of deaths contained the name of the boy. If it had been a common name, it would have mattered little. She did not tell me that the child died in Birmingham. That doctor—what is his name? Ah! I don't know him. Does he know the meaning and bearing of his evidence?"

"I believe not. He will not talk, however. He has undertaken to preserve absolute silence until he is called upon to speak."

"Keep the power of disclosure in your own hands, Dick. Above all things, do that. Why did she produce the child's clothes? Woman's wit is hard to follow. 'My word against all the world,' she meant, I believe. As if she must be believed on her bare assertion, against all the facts that could be brought against her. It was her pride. Like all female leaders, she is incredibly proud. She means to stand up and deny. On the other hand, the situation is harassing; there are points in the case which make it almost impossible——"

"The goings-on of my ill-conditioned brother, I suppose?"

"Perhaps—perhaps. I wish she had told me when and how the child died."

They dined together. Over an excellent bottle of Chateau Mouton they exchanged further confidences.

"My dear Dick," said the doctor, "it's a serious situation. You propose to cover a woman of the highest reputation with infamy. She says, in effect, 'You are quite right. I am that infamous person. But prove it.' You want to restore to another most amiable and honourable woman her son, and he would break her heart in a year. You want me to identify the lady, and thereby to confess my share in a transaction which might be made to look like complicity in a fraud and a conspiracy. I told her at the time that it looked like substitution, though she called it adoption. Well, I can imitate the lady's frankness; that is to say, I do not in so many words confess the truth, but I show it; I allow you to conclude that the thing is true. And, like the lady, I defy you. You will find out nothing more. And if you were to put me in the box—if you were to make me tell the truth about that infernal babe—never, never would I confess to knowing the name of the lady. And without that evidence you can never prove your case."

As a rule, the doctor was the last man in the world either to dream or to trouble himself with dreams; nevertheless, there fell upon him an incubus of the night which was so persistent, that, though he waked a dozen times and shook off the thing, a dozen times it came again. And so vivid was it that he saw it still when he awoke in the morning, and heard it, and remembered it, and felt it.

For in this dream he saw himself giving evidence in a court of law as to his own share in the substitution of another child for the dead child.

And in the dream he saw himself losing reputation, character, practice, everything. As the evidence was reluctantly given, he saw the face of the judge growing more and more severe, the faces of the jury harder, the faces in the court more hostile. He read in all his own condemnation.

This is what he had to say.

He looked round the court in his dream, and read his own condemnation in all the faces.

When he awoke in the morning, the scene began all over again.

"Confound the baby!" he groaned. "Am I never to get to the end of it?"

He went down to breakfast, trying to shake off the feeling of disquiet that possessed him.

Just as he sat down, Richard Woodroffe called. "I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I have just been called to the HÔtel MÉtropole. Mrs. Haveril has had a miserable night. Molly sat up with her. She was weeping and crying all the night. This morning she is a wreck. There is, perhaps, no time to be lost——"

"I knew something was going to happen."

"If she is to get her son back, it must be soon, or that dream of hers will not come true."

"Sit down, Dick. I've had a horrid night too. We will consider directly what is best to be done."

While he spoke there came a letter—"By hand. Sir Robert Steele. Bearer waits."

"Again! Three terrible nights for the three principal conspirators. The devil is in the business, I believe. Now, Dick, I have to call on Lady Woodroffe. Before I go to see this lady——"

"I sincerely hope she will treat you as she did me. The manners of the aristocracy never showed to such advantage in my experience."

"Before I go to see this lady——" Sir Robert repeated.

Again Richard interrupted him. "We cannot afford to wait any longer. Mrs. Haveril's condition forbids it. I have determined to write to Humphrey. I shall begin by informing him of his father's death. I shall invite him to join me in paying his father's debts. I shall then advertise the death of Anthony Woodroffe in the Marylebone Infirmary as the father of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. That will make him do something. If he likes to go to law, we will meet him; if he wishes to see me, I will tell him everything."

"Why not go to him at once without any letter?"

"Because he will thus learn, in the most dramatic way possible, the name and the social position of his real father."

"Dick, you make this a personal matter."

"Yes, I do." He became suddenly vindictive. "The scoundrel wanted Molly to marry him secretly, and live secretly with him—you understand that—while he was making love to Hilarie Woodroffe."

"It is steep, certainly steep. But perhaps he did not mean——"

"Doctor, you know the kind of men they are—this Johnnie and his friends. They have no honour, as they have no heart; they are rotten through and through—rotten and corrupt."

"Dick, there are others to be considered."

"I will make the whole story public—I will write a play on it."

"Is this revenge or justice, Dick?"

"I don't care which. Revenge is wild justice."

"When are these letters to be written?"

"To-day—this morning."

"Dick"—the doctor laid a persuasive hand upon his arm—"you don't understand what it is you are doing. Wait till this evening. Give me, say, eight—ten hours. Let me beg you to wait till this evening. If I can effect nothing in twelve hours—with the principals—the two—the three principals concerned—you shall then do as you please."

"Well, if I must—— If you really think—— Well, I will wait; but I will have no compromise. I could forgive him anything—his insolence and his contempt, but not——"

"Love has many shapes, my Richard. He may become a soldier—but a hangman, an executioner, he who brandishes the cat-o'-nine-tails—no, Dick, no—that rÔle does not suit Love. Stay thy hand——"

Dick turned away. "Take your twelve hours."

"I am going, then, at once—to Lady Woodroffe."