"Quite sure. I go back to the story. I concluded from the story as it was told me, that the lady's child had died in Birmingham—in some hotel, probably——"
"One moment. May I guess that your object is, apparently, to find this person who bought or took charge of the child?"
"It is on behalf of the mother, who is now in England. Above all things, she desires to find her child. That is natural, is it not?"
"Perfectly natural. Let us hope that she may succeed. Now go on, Mr. Woodroffe. Of course, a woman who would sell her child does not deserve to get it back again."
Perhaps the last remark was also a mistake. At least it showed temper.
"Perhaps not. This woman, Mrs. Haveril, however, who is married to an extremely wealthy American——"
"Haveril! Can it be the millionaire person whom my son met—with you—at Sir Robert Steele's house?"
"That is the lady."
"Indeed! I always tell my son that he should be more careful of his company. Well, go on."
Richard smiled. The insolence of the observation did not hurt him in the least. It lessened the power of the presence, and gave him confidence.