"I will do neither, I assure you." He plucked up some courage, thinking of his proofs, but not much. "I even think I shall interest you. First of all, then: my father, who was a comedian playing under the name of Anthony, which was his Christian name, married, as his first wife, a London girl. My father was not a man of principle, I am sorry to say. After a time, he deserted his wife, and left her alone with her child in the streets of Birmingham--Birmingham," he repeated. Lady Woodroffe winced. It might have been his fancy, but she certainly seemed to wince at the mention of that great city. She sat upright, with hands crossed; her face was pale, her eyes were hard, though she still smiled. "Go on, sir," she said; "left his wife in Birmingham. I dare say I shall understand presently what this means." "This was twenty-four or twenty-five years ago. The deserted wife could not believe that she had lost his affection; but she knew that the child's presence annoyed him. That fact, perhaps, influenced her. There was also the certainty of the workhouse before her for the child; she was therefore easily persuaded to consent to an arrangement, by means of some doctor of the place, to give her child into the charge of a lady who had lost her own, and was willing to adopt another. She did this in ignorance of the lady's name." "Did she never learn the lady's name?" The question was a mistake. Lady Woodroffe perceived her mistake, and set her lips tighter. "Never. She had no means of finding out. She went after her husband, and followed him from place to place, till she finally caught him in some town of a Western State. Here, as soon as she appeared on the scene, he divorced her for alleged incompatibility of temper. Afterwards he married again. I am the son of the second marriage." "Yes. This is, no doubt, an interesting story. But I am not, really, interested in your--your pedigree," she sighed. "Oh, do go on, man! Why do you come here with it?" "It is the beginning of the story which ends with that letter of mine." "You promised, Mr. Woodroffe"--she smiled icily, and her eyes remained hard--"that you would neither bore me nor waste my time. Are you sure that you are keeping your word?" "Quite sure. I go back to the story. I concluded from the story as it was told me, that the lady's child had died in Birmingham--in some hotel, probably----" "One moment. May I guess that your object is, apparently, to find this person who bought or took charge of the child?" "It is on behalf of the mother, who is now in England. Above all things, she desires to find her child. That is natural, is it not?" "Perfectly natural. Let us hope that she may succeed. Now go on, Mr. Woodroffe. Of course, a woman who would sell her child does not deserve to get it back again." Perhaps the last remark was also a mistake. At least it showed temper. "Perhaps not. This woman, Mrs. Haveril, however, who is married to an extremely wealthy American----"