‘WELL, my friend, and what hast thou found out?’

It was the Vicomte who spoke, and the question was addressed to Mr Maxwell, who had just come down from Pierre’s room with a puzzled look on his face.

Ten days had passed since the operation, and the boy was recovering rapidly. At his last visit, Dr Jules had pronounced him out of danger, and had predicted that he would be able to be outside in a fortnight; and he had added, ‘There is now no reason why monsieur may not see him, and try to learn something about his history, if only monsieur is careful not to press things too far. Let everything come naturally, just as the boy seems inclined to talk about the past.’

The good clergyman had eagerly availed himself of the permission, and had gone twice to Pierre’s room—hoping to hear what strange chance had brought him to the chÂteau disguised as a Breton peasant, for, from certain things he had said to Sister Lucie, there was no doubt whatever that he was not French—but each time he had returned grievously disappointed.

Pierre answered his inquiries as to his health and comfort in perfect English, and would talk freely about any little incident which had happened in his sick-room; but when Mr Maxwell tried to lead the conversation back to the past, and to find out carefully how much the little boy remembered, he grew flushed and restless, and relapsed into an uneasy silence, and the anxious listener was too good a nurse to disobey the doctor’s orders and press the matter, although he grew more and more puzzled as he saw that Pierre certainly remembered more than he was willing to talk about.

‘I am completely puzzled, Arnauld,’ he said, in answer to the Vicomte’s question. ‘The boy is English, so much I know; he has owned to that. But who he is, or how he came here, is a mystery, and it is a mystery that for some reason he is unwilling to clear up. As yet he is too weak for it to be safe for me to force matters. He seems to be so suspicious of my questions, and to be always on his guard, and yet I see such a longing look in his big brown eyes. Ah well! we must have patience. Perhaps when he knows me better he will confide in me of his own accord. I shall make no attempt, for the present at least, to find out his secret.’

So the wise man waited patiently, determined to win the little boy’s confidence by kindness and not by force, trying in the meantime to make the tedious time of convalescence as easy as possible, by reading to him, and playing simple games with him, and talking as if Pierre’s life had only begun with his illness, and all his past life had been one long blank.

But all the time he was watching and waiting, and when occasionally, at night, he heard a restless movement in the little bed, that had been placed so close to his that he could stretch out his hand to make a position easier or turn a hot pillow, or heard a stifled sob, he knew that sooner or later the strange reserve would break down, and the story, whatever it was, be told. So he watched and waited, and at last his patience was rewarded.

It had been a glorious summer day, and Pierre had been well enough to be carried down and laid on a couch under a great lime-tree, where he could see the river, and watch the boats with their loads of gaily attired holiday-makers gliding up or down, on their way to Dinan or St Malo.

It was all so bright and sunny, such a change from the darkened sick-room in which he had lain for so many weeks, that he felt almost well again, and chatted away quite brightly to the Vicomte, who spent most of the day at his side, for the post had brought Mr Maxwell some important letters which had caused him to go into St Malo after dÉjeuner.

But as evening came on, one of the subtle changes which come so quickly to any one who is recovering from a severe illness fell over the little boy. He grew tired and listless, and could hardly touch the glass of warm milk which old Suzette carried out to him on a dainty tray.

‘You are tired, my boy,’ said Mr Maxwell, who had just returned. ‘Remember, you have made a great step in advance to-day, so you must not wonder if you are ready for bed an hour earlier than usual.’

Pierre shook his head.

‘I am not so very tired, sir,’ he said slowly; ‘but—but—I was thinking that I will soon be well again.’

‘And that ought to make you feel very thankful,’ said Mr Maxwell cheerfully, although Pierre’s words, and the hopeless tone in which they were spoken, made him wonder more than ever what the mystery was which surrounded the little waif who had been so suddenly thrown on his care.

‘But we will not stop to moralise to-night,’ he went on, stooping down and lifting Pierre gently in his arms, ‘for I know that you are tired, if you don’t, and the best place for tired boys is bed. You will see how much brighter you will feel in the morning.’

He did not say any more, but when the little boy was safely in bed, and he took up his Bible to read a few verses aloud, as he had always done since Pierre was well enough to listen, he hesitated, and turned over the leaves slowly. At last he began to read softly, in the dim light, the beautiful old story of the son who went into the far country, and of the father who was waiting so tenderly to welcome him, when as yet he was a long way off, but when his face was once more turned towards home.

When it was finished he rose, and, crossing the room, he stooped down to give Pierre his customary good-night kiss; but the little face was buried in the pillow, and he could feel that the boy was shaking from head to foot in his endeavours to keep back the sobs.

‘This will never do,’ he thought to himself; ‘this will throw him back for days. It is better to have it out, even at the risk of a lecture from Dr Jules.’

So, seating himself on the bed, he put his arm very tenderly round the little huddled-up figure, and drew it towards him.

‘My child,’ he said softly, ‘can you not trust me? Would it not be better to tell me everything, instead of hiding it up in your own heart? Besides, though I do not know everything about you, I think I know a good deal. Nay, I have not been prying,’ he went on, as he felt the little boy start at his words; ‘but you know I have been accustomed to meet all sorts of people in my work, and to hear all sorts of stories, very sad ones most of them, and one learns to read between the lines. For instance, I know that you are an English boy and a gentleman’s son—your voice and manners tell me that; and am almost certain that your name is not Pierre. I am almost certain, too, that you have got into some trouble—done something wrong, perhaps—and you are just like the son in the story, you are thinking of home, and your father there, or perhaps your mother; only it seems so difficult to go back that you have almost lost heart.’

‘It’s mother. Father knows,’ gasped Pierre between his sobs. ‘But I’ve been thinking all this time, since I could remember, that perhaps it would be better if I were always Pierre. I could go away and work, when I am better. The Vicomte might give me something to do, and you know I learned to work with Madame GenviÈve. For they must have lost me since Christmas time, and perhaps mother thinks that I am dead, and it would be better for them all, Ronald and Dorothy too, if they thought so always. For I’ve been a thief and a liar; and, although Isobel didn’t die, I’m sure mother’s heart must be broken. Besides, Ronald is going to school next year, and all the other boys would get to know what sort of brother he has.’

‘Poor little chap!’ said Mr Maxwell—who had been able to pick out Vivian’s story pretty accurately from his confused sentences—lifting him into a more comfortable position, and stroking his bandaged head; ‘so you think that lives are ruined at eleven years old, and that mothers feel like that? Why, I hope that you have many years to live yet—many years in which to undo the past; and as for your mother, my boy, I think she is far more likely to be breaking her heart because she does not know where you are or what has happened to you. But tell me all about it, from the very beginning, and then I will try to help you to do what is right. You need not be afraid that it will make any difference to me; my lads at Bethnal Green always came to me in their troubles.’

So Pierre told all the long story which had seemed so perplexing and confused during the months that he had lived with Madame GenviÈve, but which had pieced itself together in his mind and become clear and distinct since the operation.

‘I can understand it all, sir,’ he said when he had finished, ‘except what happened at the station. I do not see what the gentleman with the bag had to do with the man with the green patch over his eye, whom I saw in the summer-house, or how I could be so stupid as to jump out of the cab and run after him when father told me to stay in it till he came back. And I don’t see why the gentleman wanted to take me with him in the train, even although he must have thought me very rude to run after him like that, saying that I knew him. Do you think that I was beginning to be ill then? For I remember saying that I would call a policeman, and I meant to do so. I saw one along the platform. It was when I turned to go for him that one of the gentlemen pulled me into the carriage. Do you think that my head must have been getting queer then? I almost think that it must.’

‘No, your head was not queer. It was quite clear and sensible, and you were a brave little fellow, Vivian,’ replied Mr Maxwell, a curious light coming into his keen gray eyes, ‘for the man in the summer-house was the same person as the gentleman on the platform, and he and his friends were on their way to France. Probably they had a great deal of your aunt’s silver hidden about them, and if you had been able to get a policeman soon enough they would have been arrested; so the scoundrels preferred to carry you off with them, and to knock you on the head when you were likely to prove troublesome. Oh, I see it all, and so will the men at Scotland Yard when they hear the story; and, please God, the rascals will get their deserts. But you must not talk any more to-night, my boy; you will go to sleep quietly now, and we will discuss it in the morning. And as for your father and mother, why, when they hear everything, I think they will be quite proud of you. For, you know, Vivian, after all, you had owned up before all this happened.’

The little fellow’s face brightened as he heard his long-lost name again.

‘I feel as if I wanted mother dreadfully, all of a sudden,’ he said, as he nestled down drowsily among the pillows. ‘How long will it take her to come?’

Mr Maxwell smiled to himself at the question, which showed how strong, after all, was the childish faith in the mother-love which would forgive so much, and be so ready to start out at once to meet the little prodigal.

Ten minutes later, when he had satisfied himself that Vivian was sleeping peacefully, he went downstairs to the Vicomte, a slip of paper in his hand on which was written an address, and in other ten minutes the two friends were speeding away to Dinard as fast as the new motor-car could take them, in order to send away two telegrams, one of which was a message of good tidings to an English home, and the other an urgent summons to an officer at Scotland Yard.