“Well,” proceeded Jetsam. “It was not the same little boy that the peasant held by the hand. Mrs. Ilam had taken her own child with her, and left behind her step-child.” “Great heavens!” murmured Carpentaria. “Exactly,” said Jetsam. “Only the heavens didn’t happen to interfere. This was no common case of substitution at birth, it was a monstrously ingenious change which Mrs. Ilam, out of her passionate love for her own son, had planned and carried out in a manner suggested to her by the facts of the situation. Consider. The two boys were the same age--about three years--and they were dressed alike, Mrs. Ilam had seen to that. Mr. Ilam is nearly blind, certainly he could not distinguish one child of three from another child of three, even if they had been dressed differently. Moreover, Mr. Ilam is not interested in the child. He is wrapped up in his own complaint, a ferocious egotist, like most sufferers. Probably the child sleeps during the journey to London--probably Mrs. Ilam gives him something to make him sleep. The party arrive at Paddington, and are met by a new set of servants whom Mrs. Ilam has engaged. She left Torquay with a child; she arrived at Paddington with a child. Who, except the old French peasant, is to know that there has been a change _en route?_ The new child is kept entirely out of Mr. Ilam’s presence. He is taught his new name; he is taught to forget his past on the banks of the Teign; and he readily succeeds in doing so. His new nurse is suitably discreet. During their brief stay in London the Ilams stop at a hotel. They do not visit friends, on the plea of Mr. Ilam’s complaint. Then they leave London for Paris.” “The thing was perfect,” observed Carpentaria, astounded. “It was fatally perfect,” Jetsam agreed. “Even had Mr. Ilam been cured at once, the danger would have been but slight, because he had never seen his own child clearly. However, Mr. Ilam was not cured at once, for it happened that the famous oculist whom they meant to consult died on the very day they entered Paris. It was seven years before Mr. Ilam got himself cured; but in the end he was cured almost completely. The boy was then aged ten years. What possible chance was there of a discovery of the fraud? Even had Mr. Ilam ever seen his child clearly, what resemblance is there between an infant of three and a boy of ten? None; none whatever. Mrs. Ilam had triumphed: she had deposed the authentic heir of Mr. Ilam and had put her own son on the throne in his stead.” “And the other boy?” Carpentaria queried. Jetsam paused, his eyes bent downwards. “Do you know the Breton peasantry?” he demanded suddenly, at length. “Not in the least,” said Carpentaria.