“Not,” I answered, venturing something, “if that can be avoided.”
“Well,” he said, “of whose child do you speak?”
“The mother was a young woman of the name of Carey. She lived in White Square.”
He lifted, and readjusted his spectacles; then, canvassing me over them, knitted his fingers lightly before him, and twiddled his thumbs.
“My memory, sir, is, I may say, retentive. The case recurs to me. What about it?”
“It is desired to find the father of that child.”
He shook his head, smiling.
“My dear sir, I am no clairvoyant. What is my position in these matters? I come, I see, I deliver. The mother is my sole concern.”
“You don’t know who he was?”
“Not from Adam.”