'I didn't mean that. You know what I mean by forget.'
'Yes,' I said, 'I do.'
She came quickly to me and took me by the shoulders, looking into my face.
'Peter, can you honestly say you have forgotten her--in the sense I mean?'
'Yes,' I said.
Again that feeling swept over me--that curious sensation of being defiant against myself.
'She does not stand between us?'
'No,' I said.
I could feel the effort behind the word. It was as if some subconscious part of me were working to keep it back.
'Peter!'
There was a soft smile on her face; as she raised it to mine I put my arms around her.
She drew away with a little laugh. Her whole manner had changed. She was a different being from the girl who had looked so gravely into my eyes a moment before.
'Oh, my dear boy, how terribly muscular you are! You've crushed me. I expect you used to be splendid at football, like Mr Broster.'
I did not reply at once. I cannot wrap up the deeper emotions and put them back on their shelf directly I have no further immediate use for them. I slowly adjusted myself to the new key of the conversation.
'Who's Broster?' I asked at length.
'He used to be tutor to'--she turned me round and pointed--'to -that-.'
I had seen a picture standing on one of the chairs when I entered the room but had taken no particular notice of it. I now gave it a closer glance. It was a portrait, very crudely done, of a singularly repulsive child of about ten or eleven years old.
-Was- he, poor chap! Well, we all have our troubles, don't we! Who -is- this young thug! Not a friend of yours, I hope?'
'That is Ogden, Mrs Ford's son. It's a tragedy--'
'Perhaps it doesn't do him justice. Does he really squint like that, or is it just the artist's imagination?'
'Don't make fun of it. It's the loss of that boy that is breaking Nesta's heart.'
I was shocked.
'Is he dead? I'm awfully sorry. I wouldn't for the world--'
'No, no. He is alive and well. But he is dead to her. The court gave him into the custody of his father.'
'The court?'
'Mrs Ford was the wife of Elmer Ford, the American millionaire. They were divorced a year ago.'
'I see.'
Cynthia was gazing at the portrait.
'This boy is quite a celebrity in his way,' she said. 'They call him 'The Little Nugget' in America.'
'Oh! Why is that?'
'It's a nickname the kidnappers have for him. Ever so many attempts have been made to steal him.'
She stopped and looked at me oddly.
'I made one today, Peter,' she said. I went down to the country, where the boy was, and kidnapped him.'
'Cynthia! What on earth do you mean?'
'Don't you understand? I did it for Nesta's sake. She was breaking her heart about not being able to see him, so I slipped down and stole him away, and brought him back here.'
I do not know if I was looking as amazed as I felt. I hope not, for I felt as if my brain were giving way. The perfect calmness with which she spoke of this extraordinary freak added to my confusion.
'You're joking!'
'No; I stole him.'
'But, good heavens! The law! It's a penal offence, you know!'
'Well, I did it. Men like Elmer Ford aren't fit to have charge of a child. You don't know him, but he's just an unscrupulous financier, without a thought above money. To think of a boy growing up in that tainted atmosphere--at his most impressionable age. It means death to any good there is in him.'
My mind was still grappling feebly with the legal aspect of the affair.
'But, Cynthia, kidnapping's kidnapping, you know! The law doesn't take any notice of motives. If you're caught--'
She cut through my babble.
'Would you have been afraid to do it, Peter?'
