"Go on," she said hoarsely.
The sick woman looked at her and a swift change passed over her face, a look almost of veiled cunning coming into it.
"He would do nothing for me," she resumed in a commonplace voice. "I never saw him again—he died soon afterwards, I heard." The subject seemed finished.
"Just one thing more," Margaret's lips were dry. She hardly knew her own voice. "Did—did he die a natural death or by violence?"
For just a moment the woman hesitated. It was as if she were weighing her words. Then she said quietly, "He died a natural death."
Margaret drew a long, long breath.
"Tell me something about your little boy," she said almost lightly.
A tenderness came into the woman's wan face at mention of him.
"I named him Louis—Louis Lesseur. That was my mother's name, and Louis is for my little brother that died. I could not give him even my own name—my father was so bitter—but these two were dead."
"And is he very dear to you—your little son?"