"Madam, hundreds of people trust me. I am a father confessor. I know all the little family secrets. This is only one secret the more. It is interesting to me, I confess, partly because I was concerned in the business, and partly because I was curious to know what kind of man would emerge from this boy's birth, and his education, and the general conditions of his life." "I may rely upon that promise?" The doctor spread out his hands. "Other people do rely upon my secrecy: why not you?" "And you will not tell the boy? For that matter, if you tell him, I would just as soon that you told the whole world." "I have long since promised that I would reveal the matter to no one unless you gave me leave." She sighed. She leaned her head upon her hand. She sighed again. "Let it be so," she said. "Consider me, then, as one of your patients. Let me come to you with this trouble of mine, which disturbs me night and day. It is not repentance, because I would do it again and again to shield that good and great man, my late husband, from pain. No; it is not repentance; it is fear of being found out. It is not the dread of seeing this young man turned out of the position he holds--I care nothing about him--it is fear of being found out myself." "Madam, you can never be found out. There is only one person who knows the lady in question, and that is myself. I have only to continue the attitude which, till yesterday, was literally true--that I knew nothing about the lady, neither her name, nor her place of residence, nor anything at all--and you are perfectly safe. No one can find out the fact; no one even can suspect it." "How has the question arisen, then? What do you mean by inquirers?" "There is only one inquirer at present. She is certainly an important inquirer, but she is only one." "She! Who is it?" "The mother of the child." "Quite a common creature, was she not?" "I don't know what you call common; say undistinguished, born in the lower middle class--a nursery governess, married to a comedian first, and to an American adventurer next, who is now a millionaire. She called upon me, and began to inquire." "Well, but what does she know?" "Nothing, except that she parted with her boy when she was poor, and she would give all the world to get him back now that she is rich." "He would not make her any happier. I can assure her of that." "Perhaps not. She saw a young man somewhere, who reminded her of her husband. This made her remember things. She heard my name mentioned, and came to see if I was the man she knew in Birmingham." "And then?" "All I could say was--truthfully--that I knew nothing about the lady." "What will she do?" "I don't know. But she can discover nothing. Believe me, she can do nothing--nothing at all. It was well, however, to warn you--to tell you. The young man she saw may have been your son. It was at the theatre." "He goes a good deal to the theatre--to see the girls on the stage."