“Poor little fellow!” exclaimed Edith as soon as she saw him, and in a moment she was behind his chair.
“Shall I cut it up for you?” she asked as she lifted his knife and fork from the table.
The child turned almost with a start, and looked up at her with a quick flash of feeling on his face. She saw that he remembered her.
“Let me fix it all nicely,” she said as she stooped over him and commenced cutting up his piece of turkey. The child did not look at his plate while she cut the food, but with his head turned kept his large eyes on her countenance.
“Now it’s all right,” said Edith, encouragingly, as she laid the knife and fork on his plate, taking a deep breath at the same time, for her heart beat so rapidly that her lungs was oppressed with the inflowing of blood. She felt, at the same time, an almost irresistible desire to catch him up into her arms and draw him lovingly to her bosom. The child made no attempt to eat, and still kept looking at her.
“Now, my little man,” she said, taking his fork and lifting a piece of the turkey to his mouth. It touched his palate, and appetite asserted its power over him; his eyes went down to his plate with a hungry eagerness. Then Edith put the fork into his hand, but he did not know how to use it, and made but awkward attempts to take up the food.
Mrs. Paulding, the missionary’s wife, came by at the moment, and seeing the child, put her hand on him, and said, kindly,
“Oh, it’s little Andy,” and passed on.
“So your name’s Andy?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was the first time Edith had heard his voice. It fell sweet and tender on her ears, and stirred her heart strangely.
“Where do you live?”
He gave the name of a street she had never heard of before.
“But you’re not eating your dinner. Come, take your fork just so. There! that’s the way;” and Edith took his hand, in which he was still holding the fork, and lifted two or three mouthfuls, which he ate with increasing relish. After that he needed no help, and seemed to forget in the relish of a good dinner the presence of Edith, who soon found others who needed her service.
The plentiful meal was at last over, and the children, made happy for one day at least, were slowly dispersing to their dreary homes, drifting away from the better influences good men and women had been trying to gather about them even for a little while. The children were beginning to leave the tables when Edith, who had been busy among them, remembered the little boy who had so interested her, and made her way to the place where he had been sitting. But he was not there. She looked into the crowd of boys and girls who were pressing toward the door, but could not see the child. A shadow of disappointment came over her feelings, and a strange heaviness weighed over her heart.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said to herself. “I wanted to see him again.”
She pressed through the crowd of children, and made her way down among them to the landing below and out upon the street, looking this way and that, but could not see the child. Then she returned to the upper rooms, but her search was in vain. Remembering that Mrs. Paulding had called him by name, she sought for the missionary’s wife and made inquiry about him.
“Do you mean the little fellow I called Andy?” said Mrs. Paulding.
“Yes, that’s the one,” returned Edith.
“A beautiful boy, isn’t he?”
“Indeed he is. I never saw such eyes in a child. Who is he, Mrs. Paulding, and what is he doing here? He cannot be the child of depraved or vicious parents.”
“I do not think he is. But from whence he came no one knows. He drifted in from some unknown land of sorrow to find shelter on our inhospitable coast. I am sure that God, in his wise providence, sent him here, for his coming was the means of saving a poor debased man who is well worth the saving.”
Then she told in a few words the story of Andy’s appearance at Mr. Hall’s wretched hovel and the wonderful changes that followed—how a degraded drunkard, seemingly beyond the reach of hope and help, had been led back to sobriety and a life of honest industry by the hand of a little child cast somehow adrift in the world, yet guarded and guided by Him who does not lose sight in his good providence of even a single sparrow.
“Who is this man, and where does he live?” asked Mr. Dinneford, who had been listening to Mrs. Paulding’s brief recital.
“His name is Andrew Hall,” was replied.
“Andrew Hall!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford, with a start and a look of surprise.
“Yes, sir. That is his name, and he is now living alone with the child of whom we have been speaking, not very far from here, but in a much better neighborhood. He brought Andy around this morning to let him enjoy the day, and has come for him, no doubt, and taken him home.”
“Give me the street and number, if you please, Mr. Paulding,” said Mr. Dinneford, with much repressed excitement. “We will go there at once,” he added, turning to his daughter.
Edith’s face had become pale, and her father felt her hand tremble as she laid it on his arm.
At this moment a man came up hurriedly to Mrs. Paulding, and said, with manifest concern,
“Have you seen Andy, ma’am? I’ve been looking all over, but can’t find him.”
“He was here a little while ago,” answered the missionary’s wife. “We were just speaking of him. I thought you’d taken him home.”
“Mr. Hall!” said Edith’s father, in a tone of glad recognition, extending his hand at the same time.
“Mr. Dinneford!” The two men stood looking at each other, with shut lips and faces marked by intense feeling, each grasping tightly the other’s hand.
“It is going to be well with you once more, my dear old friend!” said Mr. Dinneford.
“God being my helper, yes!” was the firm reply. “He has taken my feet out of the miry clay and set them on firm ground, and I have promised him that they shall not go down into the pit again. But Andy! I must look for him.”
And he was turning away.
“I saw Andy a little while ago,” now spoke up a woman who had come in from the street and heard the last remark.
“Where?” asked Mr. Hall.
“A girl had him, and she was going up Briar street on the run, fairly dragging Andy after her. She looked like Pinky Swett, and I do believe it was her. She’s been in prison, you know but I guess her time’s up.”
Mr. Hall stopped to hear no more, but ran down stairs and up the street, going in the direction said to have been taken by the woman. Edith sat down, white and faint.
“Pinky Swett!” exclaimed Mrs. Paulding. “Why, that’s the girl who had the child you were looking after a long time ago, Mr. Dinneford.”
“Yes; I remember the name, and no doubt this is the very child she had in her possession at that time. Are you sure she has been in prison for the last two years?” and Mr. Dinneford turned to the woman who had mentioned her name.
“Oh yes, Sir; I remember all about it,” answered the woman. “She stole a man’s pocket-book, and got two years for it.”
“You know her?”
“Oh yes, indeed! And she’s a bad one, I can tell you. She had somebody’s baby round in Grubb’s court, and it was ‘most starved to death. I heard it said it belonged to some of the big people up town, and that she was getting hush-money for it, but I don’t know as it was true. People will talk.”
“Do you know what became of that baby?” asked Edith, with ill-repressed excitement. Her face was still very pale, and her forehead contracted as by pain.
“No, ma’am. The police came round asking questions, and the baby wasn’t seen in Grubb’s court after that.”
“You think it was Pinky Swett whom you saw just now?”
“I’m dead sure of it, sir,” turning to Mr. Dinneford, who had asked the question.
“And you are certain it was the little boy named Andy that she had with her?”
“I’m as sure as death, sir.”
“Did he look frightened?”
“Oh dear, yes, sir—scared as could be. He pulled back all his might, but she whisked him along as if he’d been only a chicken. I saw them go round the corner of Clayton street like the wind.”
Mr. Paulding now joined them, and became advised of what had happened. He looked very grave.
“We shall find the little boy,” he said. “He cannot be concealed by this wretched woman as the baby was; he is too old for that. The police will ferret him out. But I am greatly concerned for Mr. Hall. That child is the bond which holds him at safe anchorage. Break this bond, and he may drift to sea again. I must go after him.”
And the missionary hurried away.
For over an hour Edith and her father remained at the mission waiting for some news of little Andy. At the end of this time Mr. Paulding came back with word that nothing could be learned beyond the fact that a woman with a child answering to the description of Andy had been seen getting into an up-town car on Clayton street about one o’clock. She came, it was said by two or three who professed to have seen her, from the direction of Briar street. The chief of police had been seen, and he had already telegraphed to all the stations. Mr. Hall was at the central station awaiting the result.
After getting a promise from Mr. Paulding to send a messenger the moment news of Andy was received, Mr. Dinneford and Edith returned home.
CHAPTER XXIII
AS Edith glanced up, on arriving before their residence, she saw for a moment her mother’s face at the window. It vanished like the face of a ghost, but not quick enough to prevent Edith from seeing that it was almost colorless and had a scared look. They did not find Mrs. Dinneford in the parlor when they came in, nor did she make her appearance until an hour afterward, when dinner was announced. Then it was plain to both her husband and daughter that something had occurred since morning to trouble her profoundly. The paleness noticed by Edith at the window and the scared look remained. Whenever she turned her eyes suddenly upon her mother, she found her looking at her with a strange, searching intentness. It was plain that Mrs. Dinneford saw in Edith’s face as great a change and mystery as Edith saw in hers, and the riddle of her husband’s countenance, so altered since morning, was harder even than Edith’s to solve.
A drearier Christmas dinner, and one in which less food was taken by those who ate it, could hardly have been found in the city. The Briar-street feast was one of joy and gladness in comparison. The courses came and went with unwonted quickness, plates bearing off the almost untasted viands which they had received. Scarcely a word was spoken during the meal. Mrs. Dinneford asked no question about the dinner in Briar street, and no remark was made about it by either Edith or her father. In half the usual time this meal was ended. Mrs. Dinneford left the table first, and retired to her own room. As she did so, in taking her handkerchief from her pocket, she drew out a letter, which fell unnoticed by her upon the floor. Mr. Dinneford was about calling her attention to it when Edith, who saw his purpose and was near enough to touch his hand, gave a quick signal to forbear. The instant her mother was out of the room she sprang from her seat, and had just secured the letter when the dining-room door was pushed open, and Mrs. Dinneford came in, white and frightened. She saw the letter in Edith’s hand, and with a cry like some animal in pain leaped upon her and tried to wrest it from her grasp. But Edith held it in her closed hand with a desperate grip, defying all her mother’s efforts to get possession of it. In her wild fear and anger Mrs. Dinneford exclaimed,
“I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that letter!” and actually, in her blind rage, reached toward the table as if to get a knife. Mr. Dinneford, who had been for a moment stupefied, now started forward, and throwing his arms about his wife, held her tightly until Edith could escape with the letter, not releasing her until the sound of his daughter’s retiring feet were no longer heard. By this time she had ceased to struggle; and when he released her, she stood still in a passive, dull sort of way, her arms falling heavily to her sides. He looked into her face, and saw that the eyes were staring wildly and the muscles in a convulsive quiver. Then starting and reaching out helplessly, she fell forward. Catching her in his arms, Mr. Dinneford drew her toward a sofa, but she was dead before he could raise her from the floor.
When Edith reached her room, she shut and locked the door. Then all her excitement died away. She sat down, and opening the letter with hands that gave no sign of inward agitation or suspense, read it through. It was dated at Havana, and was as follows:
“MRS. HELEN DINNEFORD: MADAM—My physician tells me that I cannot live a week—may die at any moment; and I am afraid to die with one unconfessed and unatoned sin upon my conscience—a sin into which I was led by you, the sharer of my guilt. I need not go into particulars. You know to what I refer—the ruin of an innocent, confiding young man, your daughter’s husband. I do not wonder that he lost his reason! But I have information that his insanity has taken on the mildest form, and that his friends are only keeping him at the hospital until they can get a pardon from the governor. It is in your power and mine to establish his innocence at once. I leave you a single mouth in which to do this, and at the same time screen yourself, if that be possible. If, at the end of a month, it is not done, then a copy of this letter, with a circumstantial statement of the whole iniquitous affair, will be placed in the hands of your husband, and another in the hands of your daughter. I have so provided for this that no failure can take place. So be warned and make the innocence of George Granger as clear as noonday.
“LLOYD FREELING.”
Twice Edith read this letter through before a sign of emotion was visible. She looked about the room, down at herself, and again at the letter.
“Am I really awake?” she said, beginning to tremble. Then the glad but terrible truth grappled with her convictions, and through the wild struggle and antagonism, of feeling that shook her soul there shone into her face a joy so great that the pale features grew almost radiant.
“Innocent! innocent!” fell from her lips, over which crept a smile of ineffable love. But it faded out quickly, and left in its place a shadow of ineffable pain.
“Innocent! innocent!” she repeated, now clasping her hands and lifting her eyes heavenward. “Dear Lord and Saviour! My heart is full of thankfulness! Innocent! Oh, let it be made as clear as noonday! And my baby, Lord—oh, my baby, my baby! Give him back to me!”
She fell forward upon her bed, kneeling, her face hidden among the pillows, trembling and sobbing.
“Edith! Edith!” came the agitated voice of her father from without. She rose quickly, and opening the door, saw his pale, convulsed countenance.
“Quick! quick! Your mother!” and Mr. Dinneford turned and ran down stairs, she following. On reaching the dining-room, Edith found her mother lying on a sofa, with the servants about her in great excitement. Better than any one did she comprehend what she saw.
“Dead,” fell almost coldly from her lips.
“I have sent for Dr. Radcliffe. It may only be a fainting fit,” answered Mr. Dinneford.
Edith stood a little way off from her mother, as if held from personal contact by an invisible barrier, and looked upon her ashen face without any sign of emotion.
“Dead, and better so,” she said, in an undertone heard only by her father.
“My child! don’t, don’t!” exclaimed Mr. Dinneford in a deprecating whisper.
“Dead, and better so,” she repeated, firmly.
While the servants chafed the hands and feet of Mrs. Dinneford, and did what they could in their confused way to bring her back to life, Edith stood a little way off, apparently undisturbed by what she saw, and not once touching her mother’s body or offering a suggestion to the bewildered attendants.
When Dr. Radcliffe came and looked at Mrs. Dinneford, all saw by his countenance that he believed her dead. A careful examination proved the truth of his first impression. She was done with life in this world.
As to the cause of her death, the doctor, gathering what he could from her husband, pronounced it heart disease. The story told outside was this—so the doctor gave it, and so it was understood: Mrs. Dinneford was sitting at the table when her head was seen to sink forward, and before any one could get to her she was dead. It was not so stated to him by either Mr. Dinneford or Edith, but he was a prudent man, and careful of the good fame of his patients. Family affairs he held as sacred trusts. We’ll he knew that there had been a tragedy in this home—a tragedy for which he was in part, he feared, responsible; and he did not care to look into it too closely. But of all that was involved in this tragedy he really knew little. Social gossip had its guesses at the truth, often not very remote, and he was familiar with these, believing little or much as it suited him.
It is not surprising that Edith’s father, on seeing the letter of Lloyd Freeling, echoed his daughter’s words, “Better so!”
Not a tear was shed on the grave of Mrs. Dinneford. Husband and daughter saw her body carried forth and buried out of sight with a feeling of rejection and a sense of relief. Death had no power to soften their hearts toward her. Charity had no mantle broad enough to cover her wickedness; filial love was dead, and the good heart of her husband turned away at remembrance with a shudder of horror.
Yes, it was “better so!” They had no grief, but thankfulness, that she was dead.
On the morning after the funeral there came a letter from Havana addressed to Mr. Dinneford. It was from the man Freeling. In it he related circumstantially all the reader knows about the conspiracy to destroy Granger. The letter enclosed an affidavit made by Freeling, and duly attested by the American consul, in which he stated explicitly that all the forgeries were made by himself, and that George Granger was entirely ignorant of the character of the paper he had endorsed with the name of the firm.
Since the revelation made to Edith by Freeling’s letter to her mother, all the repressed love of years, never dead nor diminished, but only chained, held down, covered over, shook itself free from bonds and the wrecks and debris of crushed hopes. It filled her heart with an agony of fullness. Her first passionate impulse was to go to him and throw herself into his arms. But a chilling thought came with the impulse, and sent all the outgoing heart-beats back. She was no longer the wife of George Granger. In a weak hour she had yielded to the importunities of her father, and consented to an application for divorce. No, she was no longer the wife of George Granger. She had no right to go to him. If it were true that reason had been in part or wholly restored, would he not reject her with scorn? The very thought made her heart stand still. It would be more than she could bear.
CHAPTER XXIV
NO other result than the one that followed could have been hoped for. The strain upon Edith was too great. After the funeral of her mother mind and body gave way, and she passed several weeks in a half-unconscious state.
Two women, leading actors in this tragedy of life, met for the first time in over two years—Mrs. Hoyt, alias Bray, and Pinky Swett. It had not gone very well with either of them during that period. Pinky, as the reader knows, had spent the time in prison, and Mrs. Bray, who had also gone a step too far in her evil ways, was now hiding from the police under a different name from any heretofore assumed. They met, by what seemed an accident, on the street.
“Pinky!”
“Fan!”
Dropped from their lips in mutual surprise and pleasure. A little while they held each other’s hands, and looked into each other’s faces with keenly-searching, sinister eyes, one thought coming uppermost in the minds of both—the thought of that long-time-lost capital in trade, the cast-adrift baby.
From the street they went to Mrs. Bray’s hiding-place a small ill-furnished room in one of the suburbs of the city—and there took counsel together.
“What became of that baby?” was one of Mrs. Bray’s first questions.
“It’s all right,” answered Pinky.
“Do you know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“And can you put your hand on it?”
“At any moment.”
“Not worth the trouble of looking after now,” said Mrs. Bray, assuming an indifferent manner.
“Why?” Pinky turned on her quickly.
“Oh, because the old lady is dead.”
“What old lady?”
“The grandmother.”
“When did she die?”
“Three or four weeks ago.”
“What was her name?” asked Pinky.
Mrs. Bray closed her lips tightly and shook her head.
“Can’t betray thatt secret,” she replied.
“Oh, just as you like;” and Pinky gave her head an impatient toss. “High sense of honor! Respect for the memory of a departed friend! But it won’t go down with me, Fan. We know each other too well. As for the baby—a pretty big one now, by the way, and as handsome a boy as you’ll find in all this city—he’s worth something to somebody, and I’m on that somebody’s track. There’s mother as well as a grandmother in the case, Fan.”
Mrs. Bray’s eyes flashed, and her face grew red with an excitement she could not hold back. Pinky watched her keenly.
“There’s somebody in this town to-day who would give thousands to get him,” she added, still keeping her eyes on her companion. “And as I was saying, I’m on that somebody’s track. You thought no one but you and Sal Long knew anything, and that when she died you had the secret all to yourself. But Sal didn’t keep mum about it.”
“Did she tell you anything?” demanded Mrs. Bray, thrown off her guard by Pinky’s last assertion.
“Enough for me to put this and that together and make it nearly all out,” answered Pinky, with great coolness. “I was close after the game when I got caught myself. But I’m on the track once more, and don’t mean to be thrown off. A link or two in the chain of evidence touching the parentage of this child, and I am all right. You have these missing links, and can furnish them if you will. If not, I am bound to find them. You know me, Fan. If I once set my heart on doing a thing, heaven and earth can’t stop me.”
“You’re devil enough for anything, I know, and can lie as fast as you can talk,” returned Mrs. Bray, in considerable irritation. “If I could believe a word you said! But I can’t.”
“No necessity for it,” retorted Pinky, with a careless toss of her head. “If you don’t wish to hunt in company, all right. I’ll take the game myself.”
“You forget,” said Mrs. Bray, “I can spoil your game.”
“Indeed! how?”
“By blowing the whole thing to Mr.—”
“Mr. who?” asked Pinky, leaning forward eagerly as her companion paused without uttering the name that was on her lips.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Mrs. Bray gave a low tantalizing laugh.
“I’m not sure that I would, from you. I’m bound to know somehow, and it will be cheapest to find out for myself,” replied Pinky, hiding her real desire, which was to get the clue she sought from Mrs. Bray, and which she alone could give. “As for blowing on me, I wouldn’t like anything better. I wish you’d call on Mr. Somebody at once, and tell him I’ve got the heir of his house and fortune, or on Mrs. Somebody, and tell her I’ve got her lost baby. Do it, Fan; that’s a deary.”
“Suppose I were to do so?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger that was in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness.
“What then?”
“The police would be down on you in less than an hour.”
“And what then?”
“Your game would be up.”
Pinky laughed derisively:
“The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for nearly a month past. But I’m too much for them. I know how to cover my tracks.”
“Down on you! For what?”
“They’re after the boy.”
“What do they know about him? Who set them after him?”
“I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on his track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp.”
“Who had him?”
“I’m a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up,” said Pinky, in reply. “It’s stirred things amazingly.”
“How?”
“Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp. They’ve had me before the mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up the child in Briar street and run off with him. But I denied it all.”
“And I can swear that you confessed it all to me,” said Mrs. Bray, with ill-concealed triumph.
“It won’t do, Fan,” laughed Pinky. “They’ll not be able to find him any more then than now. But I wish you would. I’d like to know this Mr. Somebody of whom you spoke. I’ll sell out to him. He’ll bid high, I’m thinking.”
Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the secret of the child’s parentage lest she should rob her of the last gain possible to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray became wrought up to a state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind rage pushed Pinky from her room. The assault was sudden and unexpected–so sudden that Pinky, who was the stronger, had no time to recover herself and take the offensive before she was on the outside and the door shut and locked against her. A few impotent threats and curses were interchanged between the two infuriated women, and then Pinky went away.
On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he was informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to see him. She did not send her card nor give her name. On going into the room where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman with a dark, sallow complexion. She arose and came forward a step or two in evident embarrassment.
“Mr. Dinneford?” she said.
“That is my name, madam,” was replied.
“You do not know me?”
Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered,
“I have not that pleasure, madam.”
The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating.
“Be seated, madam,” said Mr. Dinneford.
She sat down, seeming very ill at ease. He took a chair in front of her.
“You wish to see me?”
“Yes, sir, and on a matter that deeply concerns you. I was your daughter’s nurse when her baby was born.”
She paused at this. Mr. Dinneford had caught his breath. She saw the almost wild interest that flushed his face.
After waiting a moment for some response, she added, in a low, steady voice,
“That baby is still alive, and I am the only person who can clearly identify him.”
Mr. Dinneford did not reply immediately. He saw by the woman’s face that she was not to be trusted, and that in coming to him she had only sinister ends in view. Her story might be true or false. He thought hurriedly, and tried to regain exterior calmness. As soon as he felt that he could speak without betraying too much eagerness, he said, with an appearance of having recognized her,
“You are Mrs.–?”
He paused, but she did not supply the name.
“Mrs.–? Mrs.–? what is it?”
“No matter, Mr. Dinneford,” answered Mrs. Bray, with the coolness and self-possession she had now regained. “What I have just told you is true. If you wish to follow up the matter—wish to get possession of your daughter’s child—you have the opportunity; if not, our interview ends, of course;” and she made a feint, as if going to rise.
“Is it the child a woman named Pinky Swett stole away from Briar street on Christmas day?” asked Mr. Dinneford, speaking from a thought that flashed into his mind, and so without premeditation. He fixed his eyes intently on Mrs. Bray’s face, and saw by its quick changes and blank surprise that he had put the right question. Before she could recover herself and reply, he added,
“And you are, doubtless, this same Pinky Swett.”
The half smile, half sneer, that curved the woman’s lips, told Mr. Dinneford that he was mistaken.
“No, sir,” was returned, with regained coolness. “I am not ‘this same Pinky Swett.’ You are out there.”
“But you know her?”
“I don’t know anything just now, sir,” answered the woman, with a chill in her tones. She closed her lips tightly, and shrunk back in her chair.
“What, then, are your here for?” asked Mr. Dinneford, showing considerable sternness of manner.
“I thought you understood,” returned the woman. “I was explicit in my statement.”
“Oh, I begin to see. There is a price on your information,” said Mr. Dinneford.
“Yes, sir. You might have known that from the first. I will be frank with you.”
“But why have you kept this secret for three years? Why did you not come before?” asked Mr. Dinneford.
“Because I was paid to keep the secret. Do you understand?”
Too well did Mr. Dinneford understand, and it was with difficulty he could suppress a groan as his head drooped forward and his eyes fell to the floor.
“It does not pay to keep it any longer,” added the woman.
Mr. Dinneford made no response.
“Gain lies on the other side. The secret is yours, if you will have it.”
“At what price?” asked Mr. Dinneford, without lifting his eyes.
“One thousand dollars, cash in hand.”
“On production of the child and proof of its identity?”
Mrs. Bray took time to answer. “I do not mean to have any slip in this matter,” she said. “It was a bad business at the start, as I told Mrs. Dinneford, and has given me more trouble than I’ve been paid for, ten times over. I shall not be sorry to wash my hands clean of it; but whenever I do so, there must be compensation and security. I haven’t the child, and you may hunt me to cover with all the police hounds in the city, and yet not find him.”
“If I agree to pay your demand,” replied Mr. Dinneford, “it can only be on production and identification of the child.”
“After which your humble servant will be quickly handed over to the police,” a low, derisive laugh gurgling in the woman’s throat.
“The guilty are ever in dread, and the false always in fear of betrayal,” said Mr. Dinneford. “I can make no terms with you for any antecedent reward. The child must be in my possession and his parentage clearly proved before I give you a dollar. As to what may follow to yourself, your safety will lie in your own silence. You hold, and will still hold, a family secret that we shall not care to have betrayed. If you should ever betray it, or seek, because of its possession, to annoy or prey upon us, I shall consider all honorable contract we may have at an end, and act accordingly.”