Von Rosen laughed, but he also blushed. He spoke rather stammeringly. “Well, Sturtevant,” said he, “the fact is, Jane and I have talked it over, and she thinks she can manage, and he seems a bright little chap, and—I have about made up my mind to keep him myself.”
“He is going to be baptised as soon as he is big enough to be taken out of my darning basket,” said Jane Riggs with defiance, but Mrs. Sturtevant regarded her with relief.
“I dare say he will be a real comfort to you,” she said, “even if he does come from such queer stock.” Her husband looked at Von Rosen and whistled under his breath.
“People will talk,” he said aside.
“Let them,” returned Von Rosen. He was experiencing a strange new joy of possession, which no possibility of ridicule could daunt. However, his joy was of short duration. The baby was a little over three months old, and had been promoted to a crib, and a perambulator, had been the unconscious recipient of many gifts from the women of Von Rosen's parish, and of many calls from admiring little girls. Jane had scented the danger. She came home from marketing one morning, quite pale, and could hardly speak when she entered Von Rosen's study.
“There's an outlandish young man around here,” said she, “and you had better keep that baby close.”
Von Rosen laughed. “Those people are always about,” he said. “You have no reason to be nervous, Jane. There is hardly a chance he has anything to do with the baby, and in any case, he would not be likely to burden himself with the care of it.”
“Don't you be too sure,” said Jane stoutly, “a baby like that!”
Jane, much against her wishes, was obliged to go out that afternoon, and Von Rosen was left alone with the baby with the exception of a little nurse girl who had taken the place of Mrs. Bestwick. Then it was that the Syrian man, he was no more than a boy, came. Von Rosen did not at first suspect. The Syrian spoke very good English, and he was a Christian. So he told Von Rosen. Then he also told him that the dead girl had been his wife, and produced letters signed with the name which those in her possession had borne. Von Rosen was convinced. There was something about the boy with his haughty, almost sullen, oriental manner which bore the stamp of truth. However, when he demanded only the suit-case which his dead wife had brought when she came to the house, Von Rosen was relieved. He produced it at once, and his wonder and disgust mounted to fever heat, when that Eastern boy proceeded to take out carefully the gauds of feminine handiwork which it contained, and press them upon Von Rosen at exorbitant prices. Von Rosen was more incensed than he often permitted himself to be. He ordered the boy from the house, and he departed with strong oaths, and veiled and intricate threats after the manner of his subtle race, and when Jane Riggs came home, Von Rosen told her.
“I firmly believe the young rascal was that poor girl's husband, and the boy's father,” he said.