"Because I'm the nurse from whom the Whitelaw baby was stolen nearly twenty years ago. My name is Nash."
A memory came to him of something far away. He could hear Honey saying he had seen her, a pretty little Englishwoman, and that Nash was her name. Looking at her now, he saw that she was more than a pretty little Englishwoman; she was a soul in torture, with a flame eating at the heart. He felt sorry for her, but not so sorry as to be free from impatience at the dogging with which the Whitelaw baby followed him.
"Why do you say this to me?"
"Because of what I've heard from the family. They've spoken of you. They think it—queer."
"They think what queer?"
"That your name is Whitelaw—that your father's name was Theodore—that you look so much like the rest of them. Mr. Whitelaw's name is Henry Theodore—"
"And my father's name was only Theodore. My mother's name was Lucy. I was born in The Bronx. I'm exactly nineteen years of age. I've heard that Mr. Whitelaw's son if he were living now would be twenty."
Large gray eyes with silky drooping lids rested on his with a look of long, slow searching. "You're sure of all that?"
He tried to laugh. "As sure as you can be of what's not within your own recollection. I've been told it. I've reason to believe it."
"I'd no reason to believe that I should ever find my boy again; but I know I shall."