“Does she want to pinch him, the old cat?”
“Ah, no. Hark ye,” said the man with the muffler. “She’s greatly interested about the Dandy, and I’ve been told she’s his mother.”
“Oh, scissors!” exclaimed the sporting man. “His mother—eh?”
“That’s about the size of it,” ejaculated the other, with a mysterious nod. “She was a bosom friend of Lorrie’s years and years ago; but they chipped out, and my lady, I mean Lorrie of course, is a bit too much for her. Oh, there’s a mystery about the Dandy and his belongings, but I do honestly believe that yonder woman is his mother.”
“It’s a rum story, take it altogether,” cried Cooney. “That woman is for ever following upon the heels of Bill Rawton. Why I cannot tell you.”
There was a dead silence for some time after this, but the eyes of most present were directed to the corner of the apartment where the gipsy and his companion sat.
The last-named were conversing in a low tone, which was but a little above a whisper.
“You are not so callous and hardened,” said the woman, “as to be dead to all feeling for another. I ask you to find my boy. You can do so—of that I feel assured. You know Laura Stanbridge, who is his friend, or professes to be so.”
“Hold hard,” interrupted Rawton. Don’t be quite so fast, mother. I am not her friend. I know her. She has done me a good turn more than once, and I have had it in my power to return the compliment. What of that?”
“What of it? A great deal. She will listen to you, and I wish you to do me a turn. I wish you to help me to find my son.”