had all her fortune and her savings, and her
sister's, his wife's, too, and that she feared all would be lost."

"Mrs. Maitland was then dead," observed Spargo without looking up from
his writing-block.

"She was, young man, and a good thing, too," continued Mrs. Gutch.
"Well, away went Miss Baylis, and no more did I hear or see for nearly
a week, and then back she comes, and brings a little boy with
her--which was Maitland's. And she told me that night that she'd lost
every penny she had in the world, and that her sister's money, what
ought to have been the child's, was gone, too, and she said her say
about Maitland. However, she saw well to that child; nobody could have
seen better. And very soon after, when Maitland was sent to prison for
ten years, her and me talked about things. 'What's the use,' says I to
her, 'of your letting yourself get so fond of that child, and looking
after it as you do, and educating it, and so on?' I says. 'Why not?'
says she. 'Tisn't yours,' I says, 'you haven't no right to it,' I says.
'As soon as ever its father comes out,' says I,' he'll come and claim
it, and you can't do nothing to stop him.' Well, gentlemen, if you'll
believe me, never did I see a woman look as she did when I says all
that. And she up and swore that Maitland should never see or touch the
child again--not under no circumstances whatever."

Mrs. Gutch paused to take a little refreshment from her pocket-flask,
with an apologetic remark as to the state of her heart. She resumed,
presently, apparently refreshed.

"Well, gentlemen, that notion, about Maitland's taking the child away
from her seemed to get on her mind, and she used to talk to me at times
about it, always saying the same thing--that Maitland should never have
him. And one day she told me she was going to London to see lawyers
about it, and she went, and she came back, seeming more satisfied, and
a day or two afterwards, there came a gentleman who looked like a
lawyer, and he stopped a day or two, and he came again and again, until
one day she came to me, and she says, 'You don't know who that
gentleman is that's come so much lately?' she says. 'Not I,' I says,
'unless he's after you.' 'After me!' she says, tossing her head:
'That's the gentleman that ought to have married my poor sister if that
scoundrel Maitland hadn't tricked her into throwing him over!' 'You
don't say so!' I says. 'Then by rights he ought to have been the
child's pa!' 'He's going to