It was the first news that Jane Raytham had had of any trouble in connection with the will, but the request was one which she could not pass unchallenged.
“I know nothing about the matter,” she said. “Peter, of course, must do as he wishes. I have no influence there.”
“You have a big influence,” said Mrs. Dawlish emphatically. “Peter has found out about the child; I suppose you know that?”
Jane nodded.
“The man is crazy to find it, and—”
She met the grey eyes and stopped.
“I am crazy to find it too,” said Jane Raytham in a low voice.
“Are you?” Mrs. Dawlish was honestly surprised. “I didn’t think you were that kind—to worry about—things. Well, that’s all the better from my point of view. I can give you the child. You can tell Peter that I’ll give you the child and make him a handsome allowance if he will stop his lawyers from worrying me.”
“You can give me the child? You know where he is?” Jane’s voice shook.
“Well—yes, I do. It wasn’t a boy, Jane.”
Jane Raytham shrank back as if she had been struck.
“Not a boy? A girl? And you promised me—”
“There’s no sense in talking about promises, or what happened eight years ago,” said Margaret Dawlish coldly. “I’m talking about the present. Yes, it was a girl. Druze took her to an old servant of mine—Martha’s servant.”
Jane could only stare at her, speechless with amazement.
“You—you’re Martha?”
Mrs. Dawlish nodded.
“Martha Druze?”
“Martha Dawlish. I am entitled to that name; not even Peter can take it from me. I married old Dawlish a fortnight after his wife died in childbirth. Anita bullied him into it, if you want to know the truth. She would have married him herself, but Bellini was alive. I was her favourite sister and she always wanted me to make a good marriage. I don’t know what she had been to my husband and I don’t very much care, but she was an attractive woman in those days, before she let herself go; at any rate she had enough influence to make him marry me.”
Jane passed her hands before her eyes, as though she were trying to sweep away the mist which still obscured a clear view.
“You’re Martha?” she said again. “Of course, I knew you were a nurse. Then Peter?”
“No, Peter isn’t my son, if that is what you’re going to say. I insisted that he shouldn’t be told. I felt it would weaken my position and authority. Mr. Dawlish was rather an easygoing man and he agreed. If Peter had had the brains of a gnat he wouldn’t have needed telling. He had only to see the registration of his birth and compare it with my marriage certificate to know as much as you know now. Jane, will you help me with him? I don’t care how large is the allowance I make him.”
Jane shook her head helplessly.
“I don’t know what I can do. I can’t think very clearly, only—I want the child—my girl.”
The hard face of Mrs. Dawlish creased in a rare smile.
“Is there nobody else who wants her?” she asked significantly. “Has Peter no rights? You haven’t thought of that, I suppose?”
“I have thought of it,” said Jane in a low voice. “But I know Peter. And whether I have her, or he, she will be free to us both. We’re going very swiftly down the slope, and the slope is getting steeper,” she shook her head, “and God knows where we shall land at the bottom. I’ve been just as wicked as a woman can be. I’m a bigamist—don’t interrupt me, please—I’m a bigamist, and my husband must know. I don’t think it will worry him as much as it worries me, and in a way he’ll be rather glad to get rid of me. But I can face all that if I have my baby! I’ll do what I can,” she went on quickly, recovering the lost balance, “if it doesn’t hurt Peter—I’ve hurt him enough. He is too good a man to be wounded any farther. I cannot see him tonight; I will write to him and ask if I may see him tomorrow, and then—”
The door was opening slowly and a man came in whose head was whitely bandaged. At first she did not recognize him, and then:
“Why—why, Peter!” she faltered.
He was leading by the hand a little girl in a worn, stained ulster. The golden head was hatless. Jane Raytham looked down into that beautiful child face, saw the clear eyes looking at her wonderingly, solemnly, and put up her hand to her throat, hardly daring to speak. She opened her lips; no sound came. She made yet another effort.
“Who is this, Peter?”
It was not like her own voice.
“This is Elizabeth,” said Peter gently. “Elizabeth”—he stooped and looked into the child’s face—“Elizabeth, this is your mother!”
XXII
“I’m sorry to have brought you down to this very unpretentious little flat of mine,” said Leslie, “but I have discovered in myself some of the qualities of a showman, and really and truly most of the documents and proofs I have are here.”
And then she laughed, rocking from side to side in her chair.
“What is the joke?” asked Coldwell suspiciously.
“You look so like Christy Minstrels, all sitting round in a circle with your hands on your knees, and it’s two o’clock in the morning, and—oh; there are a dozen reasons why I should laugh. I’ll begin at the beginning, shall I?
“I suppose everybody knows how I worked up an interest in this case, through finding a book of poems in a little Cumberland farmhouse, and
