I condense what she related. She was a widow, with one child, this son who had deserted her. He had always given her trouble. Not that he was bad at heart, but so easily led away, believing in everybody, trusting everybody. (Mother's love, here; I knew its value in a practical sense.) Unfortunately he had fallen into bad company, and her belief was that he was ashamed to return to her. Years ago they had been fairly well off, but little by little he had got from her all she was worth, and then he left her. She managed to rub along, however, being assisted by Philip's uncle, her deceased husband's brother. This uncle had lately died and left her a small legacy, which she had received. A legacy of three thousand pounds was left to Philip; in case of his death at the time of the testator's decease the money would go to a charitable institution. Philip had not presented himself to claim the legacy, and she was naturally anxious to discover him, so she had come to me to assist her.
A simple story, before the end of which I had made up my mind about the man. A thoroughly bad lot—an opinion I kept to myself, however.
I put a few questions to Mrs. Barlow.
"Can you think of any reason why your son should not come forward to claim this fortune?"
"No."
She was afraid to express what must have been in her mind—that he was dead.
"He fell into bad company, you say. What kind of bad company? I must press for an answer."
"Unfortunately he was fond of cards."
"Blacklegs got hold of him, then?" She sighed. "Did he bet on horses?"
"Yes."