"Partly out of curiosity. I was curious to ascertain whether chance had directed me to the right quarter. I am satisfied on that score. Partly I came in order to warn you that the story may possibly be brought to light." "How? how?" "Since you are not concerned, it doesn't matter, does it? I may as well go." But he did not move from his chair. "So far as I am concerned, there is no truth in it." "In that case, I can do nothing except to tell the person who is inquiring what I know. I can send her to you. Consider again, if you please. There is no reason for me to hide my share in the transaction--not the least. And if you continue to declare that you are not the purchaser of the baby, I am freed from the promise I made at the time, to maintain silence until you yourself shall think fit to release me from my promise." "Who is inquiring, then?" "Is the story true?" The lady hesitated; she quailed. The physician looked her in the face with eyes of authority. His voice was gentle, but his words were strong. "You must confess," he said, "or I shall leave you. If you continue to deny the fact, I repeat that I shall feel myself absolved from my promise." "It is true," she murmured, and buried her face in her hands. "I only wanted the confirmation from your own lips. Now, Lady Woodroffe, be under no anxiety. I hope that this is the only occasion on which we shall discuss a subject naturally painful to you." She sat without reply, abashed and humiliated. "I remember," he said, "speaking to you then on the subject of heredity. Let me ask you if the boy has turned out well?" "No. He turned out badly." "About his qualities, now. His father was artistic in a way. He could sing, play, and act." "This boy plays pretty well; he makes things which he calls songs, and smudges which he calls paintings. He is a prig of bad art, and consorts with other young prigs." "His mother was, I remember, tenacious, honest, and careful." "The boy is obstinate and ill-conditioned." "Her qualities in excess. His father was handsome, selfish, and unprincipled." "The boy is also handsome, selfish, and unprincipled." "Humph! You speak bitterly, Lady Woodroffe." "You know what I am, what I write, what I advocate." "The whole world knows that." "Imagine, then, what I suffer daily. Oh, how strong must be the force of hereditary vice when it breaks out after such an education!" "It should make you a little more lenient, Lady Woodroffe. Your last papers on the exceeding wickedness of man would be less severe if you looked at home." "This is my punishment. I must bear it till I die. But"--she turned sharply on her accomplice--"he must remain where he is. There must be no scandal. I cannot face a scandal. But for that he should have gone, long ago, back to his native kennel." "Let him remain. No one but you can turn him out." "Doctor--Sir Richard--can I really trust you?"