“Not a rag, Mr. Vance. They all went with her.”
“Did you notice any mark on the clothes?”
“Yes, they was marked C. A. B., in letters worked in hahnsum with white silk.”
“Was that the kind of letter?” asked Vance, who, having drawn the cipher in old English, held it before the patient’s eyes.
“Yes, them’s um. I remember, ’cause I used ter ondress the child. An’, now I think uv it, one uv her eyes was bluish, an’ t’ other grayish.”
“What day was it you parted with the child?”
“The same day she was sold.”
“When was that?”
“It must have been in May follerin’ the ’splosion. Lem me see. ’T was that day I got the pill-box. I’d been ter the doctor’s fur some physickin’ stuff. He give me a prescrip, an’ I went an’ got some pills in that air box, an’ then throwed the pills away an’ kept the box.”
Vance glanced at the cover. The apothecary’s name and the number of the prescription were legible. Vance put the box in his pocket.