"We will suppose"—Lady Woodroffe got up and stood before the fireplace, looking down upon her visitor, who was now trembling and tearful—"we will suppose, I say, that you take some steps. I hardly know what steps you can take. Would you go to a lawyer? Perhaps. Would you go to my son? Perhaps. In either case the evidence will be examined. On your side a fancied resemblance. Why"—she pointed to a portrait on the wall—"that is my husband at the age of thirty. Whose eyes, whose face, whose hair, do you see in that portrait? Is it, or is it not, like my son?" There really was a strong resemblance. Lady Woodroffe, however, did not explain that she had copied it herself from an early portrait, perhaps with additions and slight alterations. "This portrait alone will meet the case. Besides—a chance resemblance—again—what is it?"
Alice shook her head sadly. She was shaken in her faith.
"Next, you find an entry in a register. Who made that entry? You do not know. Why? You cannot tell."
"Yet Mr. Woodroffe says——"
"Never mind Mr. Woodroffe. Listen to what I say. You then come forward yourself, and you tell the very disgraceful story of how you sold your own child—your own boy. Oh, a terrible—a shameful story!"
"Who was the child that died?" Molly put a word for the first time.
"Who was that child? I cannot tell you. Some one, for purposes unknown, chose to represent a dead child as my husband's child. I say that I do not choose to offer any explanation of this personation. I will tell you, however, how Mr. Woodroffe explains it, which you know already."
She waited for a reply. There was none.
"He supposes that the child was my child; and he supposes, next, that the person who bought your child was myself. That is what he calls certainty."
"Who was the child, then?" Molly repeated.