“I don’t believe Lorrie knows where he is, and I am quite certain that I do not, and, what is more, I don’t want to know. He’s a chap I never cared a bit about—he was a deal too uppish for my money, and thought too much of himself; so you see it ain’t at all likely that I can assist you.”
“In other words, you won’t.”
“I would if I could.”
“You can—of that I feel perfectly well assured. It was into this house, years ago,” she murmured, in a low and concentrated voice—“it was into this very house that she decoyed my poor innocent boy, and I, loving him, I knew not why—crouching on the cold stones outside—shivering under the bitter winds. But ah, woman without heart! your day shall come, and it is nigh at hand.”
“Be silent,” whispered Rawton. “They will hear you.”
“I do not care who hears me.”
“But I do. You do not know the people here so well as I do. Your life might be sacrificed if they suspected your purpose.”
“Is it wrong or wicked for a mother to strive to rescue her son from the depths of sin?”
The gipsy laughed.
“You make a jest of it—do so,” returned his companion.