“I am greatly disappointed,” she said.
“You are sure that you have the correct name—you have made no mistake?” the gentleman inquired, glancing at the card in her hand.
“Yes: but you can see for yourself,” and she passed it to him, with a smile.
It was a common visiting card, yellow, and defaced with age and handling, and it bore the name of “August Damon,” written with ink in a fine, gentlemanly hand.
“Do you know that your friend resides in Boston, madame?” the pharmacist asked, as his keen eyes fixed themselves again upon her countenance.
“They—used to; it—is some years since I last visited the city, and it is possible they have removed to some other place. They must have done so,” she concluded, with a sigh, “or I should surely have found their name in the directory.”
“Were Mr. and Mrs. Damon the parties to whom you gave your child, Mrs. Marston?”
The question was very quietly, very politely put, but it was like the application of a powerful galvanic battery to the woman on the other side of the counter.
A shock—a shiver ran through her entire frame.
She grew deadly white, and for a moment seemed ready to drop to the floor.