"No. There's only the young man I met at the doctor's. He's so wonderfully like your father, and like you, too. But they say he's the son of some great man. He's bigger than you, Dick. Your mother was a little woman, I should say." "She was slight, like most American women." "This young man is tall. Your father was a personable man; and he's big--much like my family. Dick, when I first saw him, my heart went out to him. I thought, 'Oh, my boy must be like you, tall and handsome!'" "Would it not be better, dear lady, to make up your mind to forget the whole thing? Consider, it is so long ago." "I would if I could. But I can't. No, Dick, I can never forget it." "Force yourself to think about something else. It seems so desperately hopeless." She shook her head. "When you play, my thoughts go out after him, whether I will or not. I am sitting with my son somewhere, or walking with him, or talking with him. I dream of him at night. Perhaps he is dead--because I dream of him so much. But I cannot think of him as dead. Oh, Dick, if you could find my son for me!" "My dear lady, I will do what I can." "You must think," said Molly, "morning, noon, and night, about nothing else. Consult your violin; you may whisper it into the piano-case." "Yes, yes--meantime. It's no use going to see the doctor. He says he doesn't know. But if he called upon the woman at her hotel, he must have inquired for her by name." "He did not. She came to him." "Her own child was dead. Did she come to the place before the child died, or after?" "I cannot tell you." "Who else was concerned? Let us consider. An Indian ayah. Now, one doesn't bury a child and adopt another child without other people knowing it. You can't do it--servants must know. Perhaps the child was substituted. That has been done, I believe. But servants must know the secret. Then there are the undertakers who buried the child; the place where it is buried. If we knew the name of the child, I believe it would be easy, after all, to trace it. Then there is the place where the child died; it isn't often that a child dies in a hotel. There are the doctors who attended the child--they might remember the case. If we only knew the name of the child! Without that, we are powerless." "I told you, Dick," said Molly, "that we want you to find the clue. If we knew the name of the child, we could go on quite easily without you." "Very likely," he continued. "There was no concealment; it was an open adoption known to everybody concerned, who were only three people." "Then, why did the lady conceal her name?" "She was probably anxious that the child should not know his relations at all. Perhaps, Dick, if you were to go away and think for a bit," Molly insisted. "Oh yes; presently! Meantime there is one very simple way. Will you spend some money?" "John will let you spend as much as you please."