"Michael Gilroy?"
"Michael Gore. He has a right to his father's name."
"Pardon me, I think not. Bernard Gore is the heir."
"Ah!" said the woman, bitterly, and clasping her hands with a swift, nervous gesture. "He has all the luck—the title—the money—the——"
"You must admit," said Durham, politely, "that he had had very bad luck for the most part."
"His own foolishness is the cause of it."
"Did you come to tell me this?"
Mrs. Gilroy sat quite still for a moment, and Durham noticed that even what good looks she had were gone. Her cheeks were fallen in, her eyes were sunken, her drab hair was streaked with white, and her face wore a terrible expression of despair and sorrow. "I have come to tell you all I know," she said. "I would not do so, save for two things. One is, that I wish to save my son, who is absolutely innocent; the other, that I am dying."
"Dying? I hope not."
"I am dying," said Mrs. Gilroy, firmly. "I have suffered for many years from an incurable disease—it doesn't matter what. But I cannot live long, and, but for my son, I should have ended my miserable life long ago, owing to the pain I suffer. Oh the pain—the pain—the pain!" she moaned, rocking to and fro as Michael had done.