After an interval really of scarcely a minute, but which might have been hours to the father’s feeling, he read—
‘May 18th.—Boy, of apparently four years old, left on the steps, asleep, apparently drugged.’
‘Ah!’
‘Calls himself Mitel Tent—name probably Michael Trenton.’
‘Michael Kenton Morton.’ Then he reflected, ‘No doubt he thought he was to say his catechism.’
‘Does not seem to know parents’ name nor residence. Dress—man’s old rough coat over a brown holland pinafore—no mark—feet bare; talks as if carefully brought up. May I ask you to describe him.’
‘Brown eyes, light hair, a good deal of colour, sturdy, large child,’ said Lord Northmoor, much agitated. ‘There,’ holding out a photograph.
‘Ah!’ said the Master, in assent.
‘And where—is he here?’
‘He is at the Children’s Home at Fulwood Lodge. Perhaps I had better ask one of the Guardians, who lives near at hand, to accompany you.’