"And you will not tell the boy? For that matter, if you tell him, I would just as soon that you told the whole world."
"I have long since promised that I would reveal the matter to no one unless you gave me leave."
She sighed. She leaned her head upon her hand. She sighed again.
"Let it be so," she said. "Consider me, then, as one of your patients. Let me come to you with this trouble of mine, which disturbs me night and day. It is not repentance, because I would do it again and again to shield that good and great man, my late husband, from pain. No; it is not repentance; it is fear of being found out. It is not the dread of seeing this young man turned out of the position he holds—I care nothing about him—it is fear of being found out myself."
"Madam, you can never be found out. There is only one person who knows the lady in question, and that is myself. I have only to continue the attitude which, till yesterday, was literally true—that I knew nothing about the lady, neither her name, nor her place of residence, nor anything at all—and you are perfectly safe. No one can find out the fact; no one even can suspect it."
"How has the question arisen, then? What do you mean by inquirers?"
"There is only one inquirer at present. She is certainly an important inquirer, but she is only one."
"She! Who is it?"
"The mother of the child."