Mrs Ogilvy had been leaning on Susie’s shoulder, incapable of more, her heart almost ceasing to beat, all her strength gone; but when the words, “the one with the beard,” reached dully and slowly to her comprehension, she made but one bound, pushing with both arms every one away from her, and with a shriek appeared in the midst of the group. “It is my son,” she cried, “my son, my son! It is Robbie Ogilvy and no one else. It is my son, my son, my son!” She flung herself upon him, raving as if she had suddenly gone mad in her misery, and tried to pluck off with her weak hands the iron bands from his wrists. Her cries rang out, silencing every other sound. “It is my son, my son, my son!----” “I am very sorry, madam; it may be your son, and still it may be the man we want,” the inspector said. And then another shrill woman’s voice burst forth from behind. “You fools, he’s escaping! Don’t you see?”--the speaker clapped her hands with a sound that rang over their heads. “Don’t you see! It’s easy to take off a beard. If you waste another moment, he’ll be gone!” He had almost got beyond the last of the men, retreating very softly backwards, while all the attention was concentrated upon Robbie and his mother. But he allowed himself to be pushed forward again at the sound of this voice, as if he had had no such intention. A snarl like that of a furious dog curled up his lip at the side for a moment; but he did not change his aspect--the game was not yet lost. “There are folk here,” cried Mrs Ogilvy, still plucking at the handcuffs, while Robbie stood silent, saying nothing--“there are folk here who have known him from his cradle, that will tell you he’s Robert Ogilvy: there are my servants--there is the minister, here present God knows why or wherefore: they know--he’s been absent from his home many a day; but he’s Robert Ogilvy: no the other. If he’s Robert Ogilvy he is not the other: if he’s my son he’s not that man. And he is my son, my son, my son! I swear it to you--and the minister. Mr Logan, tell them----” Mr Logan’s mind was much disturbed. He felt that providence itself had sent him here; but he was slow to make up his mind what to say. He wanted time to speak and to explain. “I have every reason to think that is Robert Ogilvy,” he said; “but I never saw him with a beard; and what he may have been doing all these years----” “Mr Inspector,” cried Mrs Ainslie, panting with excitement, close to the officer’s side. “Listen to me: as it chances, I know the man. There is no one here but I who knows the man. It shows how little you know if you think that idiot is Lew. I’m a respectable lady of this place, but I’ve been in America, and I know the man. I’ve seen him--I’ve seen him tried for his life and get off; and if you drivel on like that, he’ll get off again. _That_ Lew!” she cried, with a hysterical laugh,--“Lew the devil, Lew the road-agent! That man’s like a sheep. Do you hear me, do you hear me? You’ll let him escape again.”