“The boy whom you adopted from the streets and taught to be a thief was my son. I always loved him,” said the unhappy woman. “I always loved him without knowing why. But he was the babe I nursed at this breast, and carried in these arms, and kissed with these lips—the babe I abandoned when I was mad and foolish, and whom they tore from me, and made me fly for my very life. I never knew this until lately, and I have been searching for you for months past. I asked Bill Rawton to put me on the right track, and I have asked everybody I could think of.”
“Oh, indeed.”
“Yes, I have.”
“This is very curious and romantic; and you really mean to say that you have not seen or heard of your young friend for all these long and weary years?”
“No never—never once have I set eyes upon him. But what could I do? You threatened me with the police if I tried to baulk you and I was altogether at your mercy. I did not know that he was my darling son, and if I had,” she said fiercely, “the rope itself should not have held me back, but I did not know that then. I only knew that I loved him, but I did not know why.”
Laura Stanbridge sipped her parfait amour.
“This is really very dramatic, Mrs. Grover—very dramatic indeed,” said she with perfect composure, “And I suppose there will be no harm in grattfying your curiosity, especially as it may serve you as a lesson not to play at pitch and toss with babies in the future.”
“I do not care a pin for your taunts. Jest at me as you will—it will not harm me; only tell me where he is.”
“I should be clever indeed to tell you that, seeing that I do not know myself.”
“Have you quarrelled then, and do you never see him then?”