In moments of great and serious importance we think of little things. Lady Woodroffe saw, in this set and serious face, in the lines of her mouth, in the determination of the eyes, something that reminded her of Humphrey. She should have asked the woman what other qualities, apart from those she had enumerated, he might have inherited from her. She was now certain that the interview was a failure. No persuasion, no soft words, could prevail against the certainty in this woman's mind. "I want my son," she repeated. Lady Woodroffe turned to Molly. "You have heard everything," she said. "What is your opinion, Miss----? I did not catch your name." "We must find out who that child was--the dead child," Molly replied, with tenacity. "Then we will talk no more." She smiled again, but showed her teeth. She then did the boldest thing in her power, a thing which deliberately confessed the truth and bade them defiance. Like every bold stroke, it was a stroke of genius. Yet, like every stroke of genius, perhaps it was a mistake. For she had brought down the very clothes in which the child had come to her. And now she showed them to the mother, and claimed them for her own. "I am only going to delay you one minute, Mrs. Haveril. It is a foolish thing, perhaps; but it is an appeal to sentiment. I suppose that there is nothing a woman treasures more than her son's baby-clothes. I am going to show you a bundle of things that I made with my own hands, for my baby--mine--woman--do you hear?"--with the real ring of temper--"mine! "These things"--she untied the towel slowly--"are my son's clothes when he was about twelve months of age. They are made of quite common materials, after the old Scotch fashion. The very things I made myself--with my own hands--for the child." She laid back the corners of the towel. She took up the things one by one. "His frock--he had gone into short frocks--his flannel, his shirt, his socks, his shoes, his cap." She held them up, and she looked at her visitor with mockery in her eyes and defiance in her words. "My things--that I made. You would like to have the baby-clothes of your own son--whom you sold--would you not?" Alice started and sprang to her feet, gazing upon the baby-clothes. "You see," Lady Woodroffe went on coldly and calmly, as if every word was not a lie, "the work is not very fine. There is his name in marking-ink. I did this embroidery. I made everything except his socks and his shoes. There is his rattle." It was a cheap common thing. "Here is his little cap. You have made such things, Mrs. Haveril, I dare say, for your child--the child you sold. I thought I would show them to you, to prove better than any words of mine, that my child is my own."