"What do you know about your father?"
"Nothing at all. I never heard his name till she gave it at the police station, the night before she died."
"Oh, at the police station! Why there?"
Tom told the whole story, keeping nothing back.
The man's only comment was to say, "And you never heard the name of Whitelaw in connection with yourself till you heard it on that evening?"
"Yes, sir, I'd heard it before that."
"When and how?"
"Always when my mother was in a—in a state of nerves. You mustn't forget that she wasn't exactly in her right mind. That was the excuse for what she—she did in shops. So, once in so often, she'd say that I was never to think that my name was Whitelaw, or that she'd stolen me."
There was again from the woman a little moaning gasp, but the man was outwardly self-possessed.
"So she said that?"