"Meantime, one of Mrs. Haveril's friends began to make inquiries into the case. He ascertained that the son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe died, a child of fifteen months old, at Birmingham, early in 1874. He further learned that the so-called son, in person, figure, and face, closely resembled the father of the adopted child; and he learned also that the medical man who attended the dead child knew its name, and could absolutely identify the mother as the present Lady Woodroffe. In fact, the case was so far capable of proof that no reasonable person could entertain the slightest doubt on the subject.
"It was certainly open to Lady Woodroffe to perjure herself by denying that she had ever been in Birmingham. This she was going to do. I took no steps to dissuade her; nor did I take any steps to put an end to the fraudulent representation of this young man as Sir Humphrey's son; in fact, I became a party to the conspiracy."
He looked round the court in his dream, and read his own condemnation in all the faces.
When he awoke in the morning, the scene began all over again.
"Confound the baby!" he groaned. "Am I never to get to the end of it?"
He went down to breakfast, trying to shake off the feeling of disquiet that possessed him.
Just as he sat down, Richard Woodroffe called. "I am sorry to disturb you," he said, "but I have just been called to the Hôtel Métropole. Mrs. Haveril has had a miserable night. Molly sat up with her. She was weeping and crying all the night. This morning she is a wreck. There is, perhaps, no time to be lost——"
"I knew something was going to happen."
"If she is to get her son back, it must be soon, or that dream of hers will not come true."
"Sit down, Dick. I've had a horrid night too. We will consider directly what is best to be done."