He saw by her frown that she did not understand him. “Do you know a woman called Martha?” She shook her head. “I don’t remember anybody of that name. Why?” “Martha’s servant had the child. Bellini knows. And what Bellini knows, I will know.” He made as though to leave the room, but she barred the way. “Peter, will you forgive me? I’ve been a fool--a wicked fool, Peter. I’d gladly change places with my own kitchen maid to undo all the past. You loathe me, don’t you?” “No, I don’t loathe you,” he said quietly. “I’m awfully sorry for you in a way; but I’m disappointed in you, too, Jane. You’ve been a weakling.” “Have I? I suppose I have.” She saw him, a blurred figure, through a mist of tears. “I suppose I have. And one pays dearer for weakness than for wickedness, I think. Where are you going?” “I’m going to find the child.” She threw out her arms in a gesture of despair. “Find the child! If you only could! Peter, if you could bring him to me and----” “You!” He laughed harshly. “The child belongs to me! To me! Do you hear? You had him and lost him. If I find him I will keep him.” He brushed past her, threw open the door, and stalked through the hall into the night. He had still the greater part of the twenty pounds left that Leslie had given to him, and at this moment of crisis he must spend; he could not afford to economize. A taxi driver accepted with some reluctance his order to drive to Wimbledon Common. It was a long journey, and he had time to put in order the confusion of his mind. Anita Bellini knew; he was confident of that. And if she knew, he should know. Her residence was a mansion, standing in two acres of ground on the fashionable side of Wimbledon Common; a big, somewhat old-fashioned house, garnished with the square towers and big Gothic turrets which were the joy of the Victorian architects. It had something of a mediæval appearance, seemed to be a veritable castle of despair when he ordered the cab to wait. The cautious man demanded something on account, and wisely, as it proved. He strode up the gravelled drive. No light showed in any window; even the transom above the massive front door was lifeless. He pulled the bell and the faint clang of it came back to him. After a long time he heard the rattle of chains, the shooting back of a bolt, and a faint light was reflected behind the fanlight. The door was opened a few inches by a very old man with dirty white hair and wearing the slovenly uniform of a footman. Peter saw that the longer chain was still fastened to the door and that the aperture was not big enough to squeeze through. “You’re Simms, aren’t you?” He remembered the ancient. “I want to see the princess.” The old man made the grimace that Peter remembered. “You can’t see the princess; she’s not at home,” he said in a loud cracked voice. “Tell her Peter Dawlish wishes to see her, and if she will not let me in she can come to the door,” he said.