Lady Woodroffe was silent. "Do you understand what I mean? You adopted him. He is yours. It is not his fault that he is yours. He may be robbed of his father by this discovery; he cannot be robbed of his education and of the ideas which belong to your position; he may have to recognize for his father a most unworthy, shameful man instead of a most honourable man. Selfish--callous--as he may be, that will surely be misery enough. He must not, at the same time, be deserted by the woman who adopted him." "I don't care, I tell you, what becomes of him," she replied sullenly. "Then, madam, I retire." He rose as if about to carry the threat into execution. "Here is your confession." He threw it on the table. "Use it as you please. I am free to speak as I please. And things must take their own course." He moved towards the door. "Oh!"--she flung out her arms--"do what you please--say what you please." "The one thing that remains is to soften the blow, if that is possible. Do you wish me to attempt that task?" "Soft or hard, I care nothing. Only, for Heaven's sake, take away that wretched boy--that living fraud--that impostor----" "Who made him an impostor? It is not Humphrey that is a living fraud. It is yourself--yourself, Lady Woodroffe," he repeated sternly. "And I am your accomplice." "Well, take him out of my sight. His footstep is like a knife in my side. I could shriek even to hear his voice. Oh, doctor! doctor!"--her own voice sank to a moan--"if I could tell you--oh, if I could only tell you!--how I have always hated the boy. Take him back--the gutter brat--take him back to that creature, his mother. He is worthy of her." Sir Robert sat down again and took her hand in his. "Dear lady"--his voice was soft and soothing, and yet commanding; his hand was large and comforting, yet strong; his eyes were kindly, yet masterful--"your position is very trying. You want rest. In an hour or two, I hope, we shall settle this business. Then you will be easy in your mind again. Come. I shall send you news that will be worth the whole pharmacopoeia, if I know the heart of woman." She burst again into sobs and tears. "Oh, if you knew--if you knew!" "Yes, I know. Now I am going. You will be better when I am gone. Once there were two mothers," he murmured, "in the parable." He looked down upon her bowed head. "One thought of herself--the other---- I go to see the other." On the stairs he met Humphrey. "Sir Robert? Been to see my mother? She's not ill, I hope?" "Best not go to her just now. She is a little troubled about herself." "Nothing serious, I hope?" He spoke with the cold show of interest in which one might speak of a servant. "Anything may become serious; but we will hope that in this case----" "Come into my room for a moment, if you can spare the time." He led the way to his study. "I want to ask you about a man I met at your house--that fellow with the money, who says he was a gardener once, and looks it still." "What about him?"