“There’s no sense in talking about promises, or what happened eight years ago,” said Margaret Dawlish coldly, “I’m talking about the present. Yes, it was a girl. Druze took her to an old servant of mine--Martha’s servant!” Jane could only stare at her, speechless with amazement. “You--you’re Martha?” Mrs. Dawlish nodded. “Martha Druze?” “Martha Dawlish. I am entitled to that name; not even Peter can take it from me. I married old Dawlish a fortnight after his wife died in childbirth. Anita bullied him into it, if you want to know the truth. She would have married him herself, but Bellini was alive. I was her favourite sister and she always wanted me to make a good marriage. I don’t know what she had been to my husband and I don’t very much care, but she was an attractive woman in those days, before she let herself go; at any rate she had enough influence to make him marry me.” Jane passed her hands before her eyes, as though she were trying to sweep away the mist which still obscured a clear view. “You’re Martha?” she said again. “Of course, I knew you were a nurse. Then Peter----” “No, Peter isn’t my son, if that is what you’re going to say. I insisted that he shouldn’t be told. I felt it would weaken my position and authority. Mr. Dawlish was rather an easy-going man and he agreed. If Peter had had the brains of a gnat he wouldn’t have needed telling. He had only to see the registration of his birth and compare it with my marriage certificate to know as much as you know now. Jane, will you help me with him? I don’t care how large the allowance I make him is----” Jane shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know what I can do. I can’t think very clearly, only--I want the child--my girl.” The hard face of Mrs. Dawlish creased in a rare smile. “Is there nobody else who wants her?” she asked significantly. “Has Peter no rights? You haven’t thought of that, I suppose?” “I have thought of it,” said Jane in a low voice. “But I know Peter. And whether I or he have her, she will be free to us both. We’re going very swiftly down the slope, and the slope is getting steeper and Heaven knows where we shall land at the bottom. I’ve been just as wicked as a woman can be. I’m a bigamist--don’t interrupt me, please--I’m a bigamist and my husband must know. I don’t think it will worry him as much as it worries me, and in a way he’ll be rather glad to get rid of me. But I can face all that if I have my baby! I’ll do what I can,” she went on quickly, recovering the lost balance, “if it doesn’t hurt Peter. I’ve hurt him enough. He is too good a man to be wounded any further. I cannot see him to-night; I will write to him and ask if I may see him to-morrow, and then----” The door was opening slowly and a man came in whose head was bandaged. At first she did not recognize him, and then: “Why--why, Peter!” she faltered.