Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman's face that she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had only sinister ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He thought hurriedly, and tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as he felt that he could speak without betraying too much eagerness, he said, with an appearance of having recognized her,
“You are Mrs.——?”
He paused, but she did not supply the name.
“Mrs.——? Mrs.——? what is it?”
“No matter, Mr. Dinneford,” answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness and self-possession she had now regained. “What I have just told you is true. If you wish to follow up the matter—wish to get possession of your daughter's child—you have the opportunity; if not, our interview ends, of course;” and she made a feint, as if going to rise.
“Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar street on Christmas day?” asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a thought that flashed into his mind, and so without premeditation. He fixed his eyes intently on Mrs. Bray's face, and saw by its quick changes and blank surprise that he had put the right question. Before she could recover herself and reply, he added,
“And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett.”
The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman's lips, told Mr. Dinneford that he was mistaken.
“No, sir,” was returned, with regained coolness. “I am not 'this same Pinky Swett.' You are out there.”
“But you know her?”