“The truth!” she exclaimed. “Not _one_ child, Master Dandy, came into the world at Chater Hall, w’en you was born—but _two_—twins; an’ the other boy was the first. But your father was crazy on that one idea; I’d often ’eard ’im say that if ever twins came, ’e would find means to git rid of one of them. It was all done quiet and secret-like; ole Cripps was doctor ’ere then—an’ a drunken little rascal ’e was, though sound in ’is work. ’E’d ’ave done anything for money—that man; an’ pretty ’eavy ’e must ’ave been paid by your father for it. As for me—the Lord forgive me—I’d a notion of starting at the other side of the world, and making a business. So your father sent me off, with five hundred pounds, and the eldest boy—the eldest, because ’e seemed the weakest. ‘I won’t ’ave two boys, to fight over the property, an’ cut it up after I’m dead an’ gone,’ says your father.” “Well—and what became of the boy?” asked Crowdy. “Went to Australia, ’e did, the blessed mite—an’ growed fine and strong—lookin’ on me as ’is mother, an’ ’avin’ my name, as it was then—Crowdy; Philip Crowdy, we called ’im. Then I met Siggs—my Toby—an’ we ’adn’t been married a year, an’ I was full of care an’ anxiety, over a little one o’ my own—w’en Philip disappeared. ’E was ten then, an’ I told ’im the story, on’y a week or two afore ’e went—your father bein’ dead, an’ my lips sealed no longer.” “A pretty story, Mrs. Siggs,” replied Philip. “And you never heard anything about this boy again?” “Never,” she replied, sadly. “We did everyfink we could to find ’im; but we was livin’ on the very edge of the bush at that time, an’ the poor lad must ’ave got lost in it, an’ starved to death. Even men ’ave done that,” she added, with her apron at her eyes. “And why did you return to England?” he asked, in the same dull level voice. “I couldn’t abear the place, after we’d lost ’im; an’ things went wrong, an’ Siggs an’ me lost most of our money. Besides, I was always longin’ for the old place where I was born; an’ so at last we come ’ome, without nobody bein’ a bit the wiser, an’ took the Chater Arms—an’ settled down.” Carried away by the remembrances of years, Betty Siggs had forgotten the real object with which she had started the conversation; she remembered it quickly now, and her tone changed. But it was no longer harsh; the remembrance of her boy, as she called him, had softened her, and she turned to the graceless Dandy Chater—(as she imagined him to be)—and spoke pleadingly. “Master Dandy, won’t you listen to an old woman—won’t you tell me w’ere I can find this poor girl—Patience; won’t you——” Philip Crowdy, remembering suddenly the part he had to play, got up impatiently, and made for the door. “I tell you,” he said, with a frown, “that I know nothing about her. And please let us hear no more of such idle tales as these. Your boy, indeed!” He laughed, and swung out of the place into the road.