Jervy stole a look at Phoebe. She had turned pale; she was listening, with her eyes riveted on Mrs. Sowler’s ugly face.
“How long ago was it?” Jervy went on.
“Better than sixteen years.”
“Did Farnaby himself give you the child?”
“With his own hands, over the garden-paling of a house at Ramsgate. He saw me and the child into the train for London. I had ten pounds from him, and no more. He promised to see me, and settle everything, in a month’s time. I have never set eyes on him from that day, till I saw him paying his money this evening at the door of the hall.”
Jervy stole another look at Phoebe. She was still perfectly unconscious that he was observing her. Her attention was completely absorbed by Mrs. Sowler’s replies. Speculating on the possible result, Jervy abandoned the question of the debt, and devoted his next inquiries to the subject of the child.
“I promise you every farthing of your money, Mother Sowler,” he said, “with interest added to it. How old was the child when Farnaby gave it to you?”
“Old? Not a week old, I should say!”
“Not a week old?” Jervy repeated, with his eye on Phoebe. “Dear, dear me, a newborn baby, one may say!”
The girl’s excitement was fast getting beyond control. She leaned across the table, in her eagerness to hear more.