"I have had an interview with a certain Mr. Richard Woodroffe, who calls himself a distant cousin of my son. He brought me a strange story of a strange delusion, which he seemed to consider supported by a certain discovery of an entry in a register of births and deaths. I cannot believe his allegation without further evidence, because it is so extremely improbable--on the face of it, one would say impossible--and I cannot understand it, even if it rests on the strongest evidence. I have, however, forwarded the case to my solicitors, who will probably communicate with Mr. Woodroffe. With him personally I do not desire any further speech. The circumstances of the case, as first placed before me, naturally awaken a woman's sympathies. A mother bereaved of her son is, at all times, an object of pity, even when her bereavement is not due to the common cause, but to her own conduct; and that conduct not such as can be readily excused. "The story which this person brought me is to the effect that you have seen my son at a theatre; that you afterwards met him at the house of Sir Robert Steele; that you observed or imagined certain points of resemblance with your own first husband; and certain others with the man Richard Woodroffe. It certainly did not occur to me, when he called, that he could claim the honour of the most distant resemblance to my son. However, I learned from him that you have jumped to the wonderful conclusion that he is actually none other than your son, whom you lost, not by death, but by sale--that you sold your child, in fact, for what he would fetch--as a farmer body sells a pig. I do not venture to pronounce any judgment upon you for this act; the temptation was doubtless great, and your subsequent distress was perhaps greater than if you had lost the child by act of God. I write to you only concerning the strange delusion. "Apart from the imaginary resemblance on which this delusion is founded, your adviser, this Mr. Richard Woodroffe, has discovered, he tells me, this entry, to which I have already referred, in the register of deaths at Birmingham. It states, he says, that on a certain day there died in that place one Humphrey, son of Sir Humphrey Woodroffe. On that day, as I find by reference to my diary, and to certain letters which have been preserved, I was staying with my father, Lord Dunedin, at his country seat in Scotland. My child, then an infant, who was born at Poonah, in India, was with me. A few days later I travelled south, to London, in order to meet Sir Humphrey, who was returning from India. And, of course, the boy came with me.