Mr. Moss, looking at him, was puzzled for a moment. "In Portsmouth," added Dr. Spenlove, jogging his memory.
"Dr. Spenlove?"
"The same."
They shook hands. "It is strange," said Mr. Moss, "that after the lapse of years we should meet in this house."
"Why is our meeting in this house strange?" inquired Dr. Spenlove.
The question recalled Mr. Moss to himself. The one incident which formed a link between them was that connected with a poor woman and her babe whom they rescued from impending death on a snowy night twenty years ago. But he had not made Dr. Spenlove acquainted with the name of the man to whom he had intrusted the child, and upon this point his lips were sealed.
"I mean," he said, "that the circumstances of our meeting here and in Portsmouth are different."
"Widely different," observed Dr. Spenlove. "I have never forgotten that sad night, have never forgotten your kindness."
"Not worth mentioning."
"But worth bearing in remembrance, as all acts of kindness are. I have heard nothing more of the matter from that time to this. What became of the child, Mr. Moss?"