“Oh, no, sir, mother has only me to support.”
“Is your mother very poor?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“Susan, sir. Just like mine.”
“Tell me, child,” said the wealthy man, clutching her arm in an agony of suspense. “Has your mother a wart on her nose, and does her breath smell of onions?”
“Yes, sir.”
The millionaire covered his face with his hands for a moment, and then said in a trembling voice:
“Little one, your mother and I once knew each other. You have her voice, her hair, and her eyes. If it had not been for a misunderstanding—perhaps—but that is all past now.”
The man unbuttoned his overcoat and took from his vest pocket a package.