There were once two women who claimed the same child. The case was referred to the king, who in that country was also lord chief justice. "It is clear to me," said the king, after hearing the evidence on both sides, "that the case cannot be decided one way or the other; therefore bring me the child." So they laid the child before him. He called his executioner. "Take thy sword," he said, "and cut the child into two equal portions." The executioner drew his sword. Then said the king, "Give one half to each of the two women; they can then go away content." And the woman who was not the mother of the child said, "Great is the wisdom of the king. O king, live for ever!" But the other woman, with tears and sobs, threw herself over the child, saying that she could not endure that the child should be killed, and she would give it up to save its life. Parables, like fables, belong to all time. This parable applies to the conclusion of the story. Sir Robert found the lady in a condition closely resembling hysteria. She had sent away her secretaries; her letters lay piled on the table. She herself paced the room in an agony. "I cannot bear it," she cried; "I cannot bear it any longer. They persecute me. Help me to kill myself." "I shall help you to live, rather." "I have resolved what to do. I will struggle no longer." "Above all, do not struggle." "You have deceived me. You told me that without your evidence they can prove nothing." "That is quite true. Without my evidence they can prove nothing." "They have found proof that I was in Birmingham at the time." "Yes, yes; I know what they have found. They have found enough to establish a suspicion--a strong suspicion, difficult to dissipate--which would cling to us all." "Cling? Cling? What would that mean--to me?" "We must, therefore, avoid publicity, if we can. We are threatened with public exposure. That, if possible, I say, must be avoided. Are you listening? If there is still time, we must prevent scandal." "I can no longer bear it, I say." She pressed her hand to her forehead. "It drives me mad! I thought, last night, I was mad." She threw herself on a sofa, and buried her head in her hands. "Doctor"--she started up again--"that man has been here again. He has found some one--I don't know--I forget--some one who remembers me--who recognizes me." "So I believe--and then?" "Day and night the thought is always with me. How can I bear the disclosure? The papers will ring with it." "I hope there will be no disclosure. Believe me, Lady Woodroffe, no one can be more anxious than myself to avoid disclosures and scandals." Lady Woodroffe, this calm, cold, austere person, whose spoken words moved the conscience of her audience, if not their hearts, whose printed papers carried conviction, if not enthusiasm, gave way altogether, and sobbed and cried like a young girl.