Naturally, amid the whole of the sad and perplexing business, the great centre of interest was the dark-eyed baby who was toddling about the passages of the "King's Arms". He had made friends with Mrs. Tingcomb and the barmaid, but resented being kissed by the dozens of women who came to see him and gossip over him. He was a bonny, sturdy, little fellow, possibly about two years old, who could walk, but beyond a few words had not mastered even the elements of speech. The chambermaid, who helped at his first bath, remembered that his mother had called him Bevis. The possession of his Christian name was felt to be something, though all other information about him was painfully lacking. For several weeks the police did their best to trace his relations, and Mr. Tingcomb lived in hourly expectation that somebody would arrive suddenly in a station conveyance to claim him and take him away. But nobody came. The excitement died down, and presently even the local newspapers ceased to refer to the case. People began to shake their heads and say it was plain the poor lamb wasn't wanted, or his friends would have turned up from somewhere to find him. Mrs. Tingcomb, very much occupied with her house and the bar, began to complain to her neighbours of the burden of her charge. It was nobody's business at the "King's Arms" to look after a lively boy whose toddling feet led him into every mischief. She even hinted that she considered the time had arrived when she could conscientiously hand him over to the Poor Law Guardians at the "Union", whose obvious duty it was to provide for him.