"Who is Sir Richard Steele?"
Her visitor came upstairs. He stood before her and bowed.
"I was right," he said. "I remember your face perfectly. But you do not appear to remember me, Lady Woodroffe."
"Indeed, Sir Richard. But if you will refresh my memory——"
"I have to recall to you an incident in your life which happened four and twenty years ago."
"That is a long time ago." So far she suspected nothing.
"Yes; but you cannot have forgotten it. I have called, Lady Woodroffe, against my wish, to remind you of a certain adoption of a child a few days after the death of your own boy, at Birmingham, just about four and twenty years ago. It is impossible that you have forgotten the incident. I see that you have not." For the suddenness of the thing fell upon her like a paralytic stroke. She sat motionless, with parted lips and staring eyes. "You have not forgotten it," he repeated.
"Sir," she said, forcing herself to speak, "you talk of things of which I know nothing. What child? What adoption? Why do you come here with such a story?"
"Let me remind you again. You were passing through Birmingham with your child and an Indian ayah. The child was taken ill, and died. You called at my surgery—I was then a small general practitioner in a poor quarter of Birmingham—you asked me if I could procure a child for adoption. I understood that it was, perhaps, for consolation; I guessed that it was, perhaps, for substitution. You told me that the child was to have light hair and blue eyes; and for age it was to correspond tolerably nearly with that of your own lost child, whose birth-date you gave me—December the 2nd, 1872. I have the date in my note-book. Now do you remember anything about it?"
"Nothing," she replied, with pale face and set lips; "nothing."