"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 wretched woman and her babe whom they had rescued from impending death on a snowy night long ago in the past. But he had not made Dr. Spenlove acquainted with the name of the man to whom he had entrusted 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 so different."
"Widely different. Varied as have been my experiences, I have met with none more thrilling than that in which we were both engaged on that eventful night. I have not forgotten your kindness, Mr. Moss. I trust the world has prospered with you."
"So-so. We all have our ups and downs. Health is the main thing, and that we enjoy. Doctors have a bad time with us."
"I am glad to hear it. By the way, Mr. Moss, my part of the adventure came to an end on the day I left Portsmouth; you had still something to do. Did you succeed in finding a comfortable home for the child?"
"Yes."
"Did you lose sight of her after that?"
"Very soon. Before she had been in her new home twenty-four hours the poor thing died."
"Dear, dear! But I am not surprised. It was hardly to be expected that the child would live long after the exposure on such a bitter night. She was almost buried in the snow. It was, most likely, a happy release. And the mother, Mr. Moss?"