“That woman has always hated me,” Jetsam murmured. “And even to-night her hatred still burned so fiercely that she tried to kill me. Even if she could speak, would she admit the truth? And she cannot speak.” “I think I can cause her to communicate with us,” said Carpentaria. “You will see in a moment.” CHAPTER XXX--The Words of Mrs. Ilam Carpentaria bent over the old woman, as if to search ‘her eyes and find some kindness there. And it seemed to him, indeed, that the character of her gaze had somewhat changed, though those brilliant orbs, famous in Torquay fifty years ago for their splendour, showed no trace of humidity. Carpentaria himself was moved. It would have been impossible for anyone, least of all an artist of romantic instincts such as he, to listen to Jetsam’s recital without emotion. And now, when the narrative was finished, Jetsam sat silent and preoccupied, the figure of grief and of failure. One felt, in observing him, the immense tragedy of his life--a life which would not have been a tragedy, but merely a little slice of the commonplace, had he not by chance learned the sinister secret of his origin. One understood how the discovery of that secret had completely changed his view of existence, how it had filled him with ideas of frantic hope, frantic revenge, and frantic regret at the long drab irrecoverable years which the past had swallowed up. One penetrated, as it were, into his brain, and watched how he was continually contrasting what his career actually had been with what it might have been--with what it would have been but for the ruthless action of the woman on the bed. And then there was the burly, smitten figure of Josephus Ilam, too, equally pathetic in its way. For love of this strong, heavy man, who once had been a little boy in a sailor suit standing on Exeter platform, the woman on the bed had committed a crime which was certainly worse than murder. She had made one life and she had marred another. And now she herself was stricken, withered, about to appear before the ultimate tribunal. It was incontrovertible that, if she had sinned, she had sinned magnificently, in the grand manner. Carpentaria glanced at the two men, and then back again at the aged mother. “I understand, Mrs. Ilam,” he began in a voice strangely soft and persuasive, “that you can indicate ‘yes’ or ‘no’ by a slight movement. Miss Dartmouth told me the other day. Is this so? I entreat you to answer me.” With a sudden jerk Josephus Ilam rose from his chair and rushed to the bedside. “Answer him, mother.” Mother and son exchanged a long gaze, and then Mrs. Ilam’s eyelids blinked. It was the affirmative sign.