“‘Ah!’ said the old lawyer. ‘There is no hope. The young widower came back, after his second wedding was all safe, returning from a three years’ visit in Europe. By a strange chance, his later union was also childless.
“‘Rich, and now thoroughly independent, he, too, wished to trace “Alva Whiting,” and to reclaim her.
“‘But the matron says that even the wily McLloyd, tempted by a handsome reward, failed to find her. The Western New York people may have given a false name, to prevent the child from ever knowing that she was not their own.
“‘That is all—the matron would gladly earn our offered money—she knows nothing.
“‘And now, God alone can, in his infinite mercy, ever reclaim “Alva Whiting.”
“‘I have tried to induce this woman to meet me. She flatly told my agent that she would have all the books burned—and then, deny everything—if her prosperous middle age was connected with old McLloyd’s baby farm. She cried, “I’m as fond of money as anyone—but there’s the end of it.”
“‘No more would she say. I fear there is no hope.’ The old lawyer was almost in tears, as he saw Madame’s sufferings.
“Now,” whispered Justine, “I merely saved my place by that agility of body which you have so often praised. When Madame fell in a dead faint, and the old lawyer screamed for help, I just ran around the hall, knocking over a table, and—the rest has been left in Doctor Alberg’s hands. So, you now know all.” The schemer’s brain was working like lightning as they parted in silence.
After the breakfast, it was Justine who conducted Vreeland to Madame Willoughby’s morning room—but not until Doctor Alberg had first waylaid him.
“The same old mystery!” the German sighed.