“Mother’s name?”
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Petre.
This time the Great Specialist betrayed real emotion. He was not quite sure that he was being respectfully treated; besides which, his Method was drifting into danger. He put down the pen, leaned back in his chair, joined his finger tips, and gazed at Mr. Petre for a minute or two in the fashion of a schoolmaster who has sympathy with an erring boy, but fears he may be too young to understand the full gravity of his fault.
“Am I to understand,” said the Inquisitor, still keeping his hands together and not yet reaching out for his pen, “that you know nothing of either of your parents?”
“Nothing whatsoever,” said Mr. Petre, looking up at the ceiling. He was a little piqued at the first interruption he had suffered, and he was determined to tell the truth, and nothing but the truth—and even the whole truth when he should be allowed to volunteer it.
The Inquisitor leaned forward.
“Now, my dear sir, be good enough to fix your attention upon me.”
Mr. Petre looked at his enemy in mild, benevolent fashion.
“You know nothing whatever of your ancestry upon either side?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Petre.