“Do that again!” I cried, and shook Alma Pflugel sharply by the shoulder. “Do that again!”
Her startled blue eyes looked into mine. “What do you mean?” she asked.
“That—that gesture. I’ve seen it—somewhere—that trick of pressing the hand to the breast, to the throat, to the lips—Oh!”
Suddenly I knew. I lifted the drooping head and rumpled its neat braids, and laughed down into the startled face.
“She’s here!” I shouted, and started a dance of triumph on the shaky floor of the old arbor. “I know her. From the moment I saw you the resemblance haunted me.” And then as Alma Pflugel continued to stare, while the stunned bewilderment grew in her eyes, “Why, I have one-fourth interest in your own nephew this very minute. And his name is Bennie!”
Whereupon Alma Pflugel fainted quietly away in the chilly little grape arbor, with her head on my shoulder.
I called myself savage names as I chafed her hands and did all the foolish, futile things that distracted humans think of at such times, wondering, meanwhile, if I had been quite mad to discern a resemblance between this simple, clear-eyed gentle German woman, and the battered, ragged, swaying figure that had stood at the judge’s bench.
Suddenly Alma Pflugel opened her eyes. Recognition dawned in them slowly. Then, with a jerk, she sat upright, her trembling hands clinging to me.
“Where is she? Take me to her. Ach, you are sure—sure?”
“Lordy, I hope so! Come, you must let me help you into the house. And where is the nearest telephone? Never mind; I’ll find one.”