ABOUT the same hour that Edith entered the boys' ward of the children's hospital, Mr. Dinneford met Granger face to face in the street. The latter tried to pass him, but Mr. Dinneford stopped, and taking his almost reluctant hand, said, as he grasped it tightly,
“George Granger!” in a voice that had in it a kind of helpless cry.
The young man did not answer, but stood looking at him in a surprised, uncertain way.
“George,” said Mr. Dinneford, his utterance broken, “we want you!”
“For what?” asked Granger, whose hand still lay in that of Mr. Dinneford. He had tried to withdraw it at first, but now let it remain.
“To help us find your child.”
“My child! What of my child?”
“Your child and Edith's,” said Mr. Dinneford. “Come!” and he drew his arm within that of Granger, the two men moving away together. “It has been lost since the day of its birth—cast adrift through the same malign influence that cursed your life and Edith's. We are on its track, but baffled day by day. Oh, George, we want you, frightfully wronged as you have been at our hands—not Edith's. Oh no, George! Edith's heart has never turned from you for an instant, never doubted you, though in her weakness and despair she was driven to sign that fatal application for a divorce. If it were not for the fear of a scornful rejection, she would be reaching out her hands to you now and begging for the old sweet love, but such a rejection would kill her, and she dare not brave the risk.”
Mr. Dinneford felt the young man's arm begin to tremble violently.
“We want you, George,” he pursued. “Edith's heart is calling out for you, that she may lean it upon your heart, so that it break not in this great trial and suspense. Your lost baby is calling for you out of some garret or cellar or hovel where it lies concealed. Come, my son. The gulf that lies between the dreadful past and the blessed future can be leaped at a single bound if you choose to make it. We want you—Edith and I and your baby want you.”