"I recall that—South America," replied the old gentleman, promptly.
A spasm passed over her face.
"His—his father is dead?" It was almost a whisper in which these words came.
"Yes," said Mr. King, decidedly, "that is the reason that the poor little lad is under Dr. Presbrey's care."
The first gleam of comfort swept over the long, white face. "But the name,—you cannot think of it?" she begged piteously.
"Let me see,"—the old gentleman drummed on the writing-table, rubbing his white hair with an absorbed hand,—"Lef—Lef? Yes, I am quite sure, Leffingwell is Pip's name. Why, my dear Madam!"—he started and put out a strong hand to catch her as she swayed in her chair,—"what is it? What can be the matter?"
She recovered herself immediately and sat erect. "I am convinced that he is Emily's child."
"Impossible!" Old Mr. King started back and held up both hands incredulously.
She twitched her black bonnet strings apart with a hasty hand, as if finding it difficult to breathe.
"So I thought at first, and I have battled the idea as absurd. But it has conquered me to-day to come here and ask you about his history. And now I know he is Emily's child."