At this the woman's whole manner changed, and Edith saw that she was right—that this was, indeed, the accomplice of her mother.
“And now,” she added, in voice grown calm and resolute, “I do not mean to let you escape until I get sure knowledge of my child. If you fly from me, I will follow and call for the police. If you have any of the instincts of a woman left, you will know that I am desperately in earnest. What is a street excitement or a temporary arrest by the police, or even a station-house exposure, to me, in comparison with the recovery of my child? Where is he?”
“I do not know,” replied Mrs. Bray. “After seeing your father—”
“My father! When did you see him?” exclaimed Edith, betraying in her surprised voice the fact that Mr. Dinneford had kept so far, even from her, the secret of that brief interview to which she now referred.
“Oh, he hasn't told you! But it's no matter—he will do that in good time. After seeing your father, I made an effort to get possession of your child and restore him as I promised to do. But the woman who had him hidden somewhere managed to keep out of my way until this morning. And now she says he got off from her, climbed out of a second-story window and disappeared, no one knows where.”
“This woman's name is Pinky Swett?” said Edith.
“Yes.”
Mrs. Bray felt the hand that was still upon her arm shake as if from a violent chill.
“Do you believe what she says?—that the child has really escaped from her?”
“Yes.”