"Milady Blakeney? No! A Meeses Smith, of Londres, a handsome creature, but artificial, racked by late hours and chloral."
"It was so like Milady," Luigi said. The doctor's consulting hour was over; the two were at leisure. "I attended her. A fine boy."
"Yes." The Frenchman appeared to be very interested in his finger-nails. "Yes—there were no complications, were there?"
"H'm!" Luigi Frascatelle sighed. "She came through well. But—I did not tell her—there is never likely to be another bambino." He dropped into medical explanation, gave a few details.
"Never," said Luigi. "But why tell her?"
Legrand took up his book. "Mrs Eva Smith, of London," he said thoughtfully. "H'm! She was dark, this milady?"
"Dark? No, but fair as the angels," exclaimed Luigi. "Golden-haired, splendid. Each year the Sposo, Sir Blakeney, sends me a gift from the boy. It is good of them to remember."
"Oh!" The French doctor closed his book. "Then it can't be," he said to himself, "since the boy is alive. But"—he looked again at the entry—"from what you tell me a second child would be a practical impossibility," he said.
"Well, it is so," answered the Italian.
"And, in this case, also. Yet the boy is alive. Come, Luigi, out. I shall be in London next week at the great Conference, but I leave happily my patients to you, mon ami."