It was most distressing to Mr. Surtees to see this tall, dignified woman collapse into such a bitter abandonment of weeping. He had even a secret affection for Sophy after his prim fashion. As poor Bobby would have said, it made him feel "rather sick" to sit there helplessly watching her. He had an almost irresistible impulse to put his hand on her shaking shoulder and pat it gently. Only the habit of a decorous legal lifetime restrained him. He fidgeted nervously with his glasses and the paper that she had handed back to him, began to mutter such words of consolation as he could think of.

"My dear lady ... my dear lady.... Compose yourself.... We shall find a way out.... I have suggestions ... yes, suggestions...."

Sophy reached out one hand to him blindly, her face still hidden. He took it gingerly but tenderly in both his own. Nature overcame decorum.

"My poor, poor child...." he said shakily.

As a staunch Conservative and member of the church of England, he had not approved of Sophy's divorce. In theory he was much shocked by the fact that she should have contemplated a third marriage. Yet, as she herself told it, her story took quite another aspect in the old lawyer's mind—seemed, in fact, the most natural and inevitable outcome of circumstances. The circumstances he still disapproved of, while sympathising, against his judgment and much to his own astonishment, with the romance that had resulted from them. And he felt highly indignant at the course pursued by Lady Wychcote.

When Sophy was calm again, he asked leave to tell her some of the "suggestions" to which he had referred.

"Tell me first of all how to get my son again," she urged. "What must I do to get him back at once, Mr. Surtees? I will not stop at anything ... no! not at anything!" Now she was all fierce and strong with maternity again. Her eyes blazed from her swollen lids, giving her ravaged face a wild, piteous look.

"If you should insist upon regaining possession of your son by legal proceedings," answered Mr. Surtees, "you would have to apply to a Judge at Chambers for a writ of habeas corpus, demanding his production before the Judge and an order that he be released to you his mother and guardian. But if you will allow me, I think I can suggest a better way than taking this distressing matter before the law.... I would suggest...."

Sophy interrupted him breathlessly.

"But that paper ... the paper you showed me just now. Isn't that to be shown in Court—to a Judge!"

Mr. Surtees hastened to reassure her.

"That is not a legal document strictly speaking," he said quickly. "It is merely my memorandum of the affidavit that Lady Wychcote wishes to present—to the Court. I have taken no steps whatever as yet. I felt it necessary to delay this deplorable matter as much as possible—certainly until I had seen you, Mrs. Chesney. Now if you will allow me ... I really think that you will find my suggestions of value...."

Sophy listened in silence while he told her of the solution that had occurred to him. In the first place, that the matter should be kept out of Court, he considered vitally important, for although the application would be heard in Chambers at the first instance, either party dissatisfied with the Judge's decision might appeal and then the matter would become public. Now what he suggested was that he should accompany Mrs. Chesney to Dynehurst, and that she should demand a private interview with Lady Wychcote in his presence. After what Mrs. Chesney had confided to him, he thought there could be no doubt of a private settlement of the matter. That the mother of the Marquis Amaldi would be willing to witness in Mrs. Chesney's defence was a most important fact; also the circumstance of her having been accompanied by Miss Pickett when she went to inquire for the Marquis after his supposed accident. Then, too, the stainlessness of her reputation in the past would undoubtedly weigh considerably with the Judge in his estimate of the case. Altogether, everything pointed to the likelihood of a decision in favour of Mrs. Chesney against her ladyship, should the matter be brought to law. So that when Lady Wychcote had been made to understand this, he thought that she could scarcely refuse to deliver up Mrs. Chesney's son to her.

"You don't know her, Mr. Surtees," here broke in Sophy, white and hard. "You don't know to what lengths that woman is capable of going...."

"I am not entirely ignorant of her ladyship's ... a ... characteristics," replied her solicitor somewhat tartly. "But in this instance I think that I could present the case to her so that she would a ... see its a ... rationality."

Sophy brooded a moment. Then she said:

"And if she would not listen ... if she insisted on proceeding against me!"

"Then," replied Mr. Surtees, "she would have to state formally in her affidavit the sources of her information. An affidavit would also be forthcoming from the person or persons who could prove the alleged ... a ... misconduct, or the circumstances from which the misconduct could be proved. If the Judge believed her ladyship's story he would order your son to be handed over to her. If he disbelieved it he would order him to be delivered up to you. I think there is little doubt which story he would believe, Mrs. Chesney. Besides, the abduction of a child is an utterly illegal and reprehensible act—no matter what the motive. A court of morals would look at the motive of course, and so Lady Wychcote's abduction of your son being prompted by her affection for him, would be judged differently from a like case in which base or sordid motives were the cause. But I do not think that her ladyship's act would be regarded by any Judge as other than highly reprehensible. This fact, taken with the rest, may well cause her ladyship to reconsider."

Sophy still brooded, her eyes on the streaking fields. The stilted legal phraseology seemed part of the grim unnaturalness of everything. Suddenly she flashed round on him.

"Which way can I get my boy the sooner?" she said.

"By allowing me to go with you to Dynehurst; I am convinced of it," he replied without an instant's hesitation. "Days might elapse if you took the other course."

"Very well," she said, "I will go with you—by the first train that we can take."

---

It was about nine o'clock when they reached Dynehurst station. They had to wait there half an hour for a fly. It seemed to Sophy as if this half-hour of waiting would never end. Then when they were once more on the way again, the lean hacks plodded at a snail's pace over the sodden roads. For the last twenty-four hours it had been raining heavily, now the air was moistened by a Scotch mist. Sophy sat forward on the musty seat, her hands gripped together, thinking of those other times she had driven to Dynehurst through the night—first as a bride—then as a widow, with her husband's body following in that huge, oblong black box, that now lay in the crypt of the little chapel.... When they drove past the chapel a fit of shivering seized her. She set her teeth to keep them from chattering. Now the cliff-like house loomed. She saw the files of lighted windows, but the nursery was at the back, she could not see if there were still lights in his window. Her heart began a sick throbbing. Was he asleep, her Bobby, her little son? Or did he lie awake, wretched, unhappy, wondering about it all—longing for her so that he could not sleep? She wanted to cry out to him that she was coming. She could scarcely wait for the fly to draw up at the front door. Before Mr. Surtees could assist her, she was out and up the steps. She rang twice. Rage woke in her as she stood waiting for admittance into the house where her son was shut from her as in a prison. She trembled with her pent anger more than she had trembled in passing Cecil's tomb. Then a footman opened the door. She stepped past him without a word, and ran towards the stairway.

Mr. Surtees hurried after her.

"Wait ... wait, Mrs. Chesney ... be advised ... I implore you...." he panted.

But Sophy did not even hear him. Her son ... she was going to her son ... that was all that she knew or felt in that moment.

She had not mounted five steps before she saw Lady Wychcote and Bellamy coming down.

She stopped and threw back her head with a fierce gesture.

"I've come for my son," she said, her eyes on Lady Wychcote's. "Where is my son?"

Both Lady Wychcote and Bellamy stood staring down at her without a word, and something in their faces made her suddenly shrivel with fear. She reached them in a bound or two, seized Lady Wychcote's arm, holding her as in a vice. Her wild look went from one pale face to the other.

"What's the matter? What have you done to him?" she gasped. "Where is he?"

She loosed Lady Wychcote as suddenly as she had seized her. Now her frantic, asking fingers grasped Bellamy.

"Is he ill? Is he ... dead?" she stammered.

Then with the same violent quickness she released Bellamy also before he could reply. Leaping past them, she ran towards the nursery.

Bellamy caught her up.

"Wait, Mrs. Chesney ... wait...." he implored as the old solicitor had done. "He's not in the nursery.... He is in ... in his father's room.... Wait a moment.... Let me explain ... for the boy's sake."

He had ventured to take her arm, and held her back somewhat as he hurried beside her.

"Bobby is not well...."

She stopped short—spun round in his hold.

"Is he dead? Is he dead? Is he dead?" she kept muttering like an automaton.

"No ... no. Only a bad cold ... from exposure.... Rather feverish.... You mustn't excite him, though.... Mustn't rush in on him like this.... Sit here a moment, Mrs. Chesney.... Recover yourself.... Let me explain."

Like an automaton she sat down in the hall chair that he pushed forward. He could see the beading of sweat about her eyes and lips as she looked up at him.

He galloped his explanation, bending over her, speaking in a low voice, and glancing now and then at the door of Cecil's old bedroom near which they were.

"The little chap got lost in the Park last night ... was some hours in a pelting rain ... d'you see? He's in no immediate danger ... but he has pneumonia ... is feverish. We mustn't startle or excite him—d'you see?"

She sat staring up at him out of a dead face in which the eyes looked startlingly alive. Then she rose, said in a flat, quiet voice:

"Yes ... I see. Now take me to him."

---