“The question between us,” said his cousin gently, “was whether you were justified in abandoning them, not whether it was advantageous to them or not.”
“I would point out in passing, Cousin Charles, that Elizabeth abandoned me, but we will let that be. My reason for opening the subject at all is not a question of justification.” He puffed away slowly at his cigar for a minute and then went on in an even, unemotional voice. “The fact is something rather strange has happened. For twenty years I have believed I knew the exact whereabouts of Elizabeth and my son. I had a good reason for the belief. One man only shared this supposititious knowledge with me.” His hearer seemed about to speak, but desisted and looked away from Peter out of the window. Not a movement, a sign, a breath, escaped those hard blue eyes, and Charles Aston knew it. It did not render him nervous or even indignant, but he was a trifle more dignified, more obviously determined to be courteous at any cost.
“That boy and his mother were living at Liverpool,” went on Peter calmly. “He was employed in a big shipping firm in a very minor capacity. He was killed in the great explosion in the dock last week.”
He spoke as calmly as if he were saying his supposed son had lost his post or had gone for a holiday.
Charles Aston gave a sudden movement and turned a shocked face towards the speaker.
“Terrible!” he said, “I wonder how the shareholders in that company feel? Did you see the verdict?”
Peter waved his hand. ”Yes, yes. Juries lose their 213 heads in these cases. But to continue. I went down to Liverpool at once before the funeral, you understand.” He paused. “I was naturally much disturbed and horrified, and then—well, the boy wasn’t my son, after all.”
“Not your son?” echoed Charles Aston slowly.
“No, not my son.” There was a tinge of impatience in his voice. “I should not have known, but the mother was there. She went in as I came out.”
“His mother was alive?”