"Then this hope has also failed. I thought that in this mother, we might find the child's abductor."
XVIII
"YOU LOOK AS IF—AS IF—"
I had studiously avoided looking at her while these last few words passed between us, but as the silence which followed this final outburst continued, I felt forced to glance her way if only to see what my next move should be. I found her gazing straight at me with a bright spot on either cheek, looking as if seared there by a red-hot iron.
"You are a detective," she said, as our regards met. "You have known this shameful secret always, yet have met my husband constantly and have never told."
"No, I saw no reason."
"Did you never, when you saw how completely my husband was deceived, how fortunes were bequeathed to Gwendolen, gifts lavished on her, her small self made almost an idol of, because all our friends, all our relatives saw in her a true Ocumpaugh, think it wicked to hold your peace and let this all go on as if she were the actual offspring of my husband and myself?"
"No; I may have wondered at your happiness; I may have thought of the consequences if ever he found out, but—"
I dared not go on; the quick, the agonizing nerve of her grief and suffering had been touched and I myself quailed at the result. Stammering some excuse, I waited for her soundless anguish to subside; then, when I thought she could listen, completed my sentence by saying: