He shrugged his shoulders. "I never forgive. . . . Well, I will keep up the geographical fiction and the runaway horses. And now I must not detain you further. I will take the boy to-morrow."
He put out his big hand, and Miss Lydia, putting her little one into it, said:
"Who is going to adopt him?"
"Who?" said Mr. Smith. "Why, I! Who did you suppose was going to—Robertson? My dear Miss Sampson, reassure yourself on that point! That hound shall never get hold of him!"
"Of course," Miss Lydia agreed, nodding, "Johnny's parents, or his grandfather, have a right to him."
Mr. Smith was just leaving the room, but he paused on the threshold and flung a careless word back to her: "His parents could never take him. The thing would come out."
"If his grandfather takes him it will come out," said Miss Lydia, following him into the hall.
"Yes, but his 'grandfather' won't take him," the old man said, with a grunt of amusement; "it is 'Mr. Smith' who is going to do that."
"'Mr. Smith' can't."