They met beside a rustic garden-seat, beneath hawthorns full of rosy bloom and the carolling of birds.
As Romaine paused, irresolute, the lady spoke:
"You recognize me?"
"You are Mrs. Drummond."
"I am Mrs. Drummond, Colston's mother."
She had drawn her weapon, and seemed figuratively to be examining the keenness of point and edge.
Romaine shuddered.
"Where is he?" demanded the lady.
"Where is—who?"
"Who!—who but my son? Whose absence in all this wide world should I give an instant's thought to but my son's? For whom else should I dare misery and perhaps death to inquire for but my son! Answer me! where is he?"