A woman passed along the driveway, and looked at him. He looked at her. The rock on which he sat being no more than a dozen yards from where she walked, they could see each other plainly. It seemed to him that as she went by she relaxed her pace to study him. She was a little woman, pretty, sad-faced, neatly dressed and perhaps fifty years of age. Having passed once, she turned on her steps and passed again. She passed a third time and a fourth. Each time she passed she gave him the same long scrutinizing look, without self-consciousness or embarrassment. He thought she might be a lady's maid or a chauffeur's wife.
He turned to watch a young man taking a swan dive from the spring-board. Having run the few steps which was all the spring-board allowed of, he stood poised on the edge, feet together, his arms at his thighs. With the leap forward his arms went out at right angles. When he turned toward the water they bent back behind his head, his palms twisted upward. Nearing the surface they pointed downward, cleaving the lake with a clean, splashless penetration. The whole movement had been lithe and graceful, the curve of a swan's neck, the spring of a flying fish.
Not till she was close beside him did he notice that the little woman had left the roadway, crossed the
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 intervening patch of blueberry scrub, and seated herself on a low bowlder close to his own.
Her self-possession was that of a woman with a single dominating motive. "You've just arrived with Miss Ansley, haven't you?"
The voice, like the manner, was intense and purposeful. In assenting, he had the feeling of touching something elemental, like hunger or fire, which wouldn't be denied.
"And you're at Harvard."
He assented to this also.
"At Harvard they call you the Whitelaw Baby, don't they?"
"I've heard so. Why do you ask?"
"Because I'm the nurse from whom the Whitelaw baby was stolen nearly twenty years ago. My name is Nash."
A memory came to him of something far away. He could hear Honey saying he had seen her, a pretty little Englishwoman, and that Nash was her name. Looking at her now, he saw that she was more than a pretty little Englishwoman; she was a soul in torture, with a flame eating at the heart. He felt sorry for her, but not so sorry as to be free from impatience at the dogging with which the Whitelaw baby followed him.
"Why do you say this to me?"
"Because of what I've heard from the family. They've spoken of you. They think it—queer."
"They think what queer?"
"That your name is Whitelaw—that your father's name was Theodore—that you look so much like the
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 rest of them. Mr. Whitelaw's name is Henry Theodore—"
"And my father's name was only Theodore. My mother's name was Lucy. I was born in The Bronx. I'm exactly nineteen years of age. I've heard that Mr. Whitelaw's son if he were living now would be twenty."
Large gray eyes with silky drooping lids rested on his with a look of long, slow searching. "You're sure of all that?"
He tried to laugh. "As sure as you can be of what's not within your own recollection. I've been told it. I've reason to believe it."
"I'd no reason to believe that I should ever find my boy again; but I know I shall."
"That must be a comfort to you in the trial you've had to face."
"It hasn't been a trial exactly, because you bear a trial and live through it. This has been spending every day and every night in the lake of fire and brimstone. I wonder if you've any idea of what it's like."
"I don't suppose I have."
"If you did have—" He thought she was going to say that if he did have he would allow himself to become the Whitelaw baby in order to relieve her anguish, but she struck another note. "I hadn't the least suspicion of what had been done to me till the two footmen had lifted the little carriage up over the steps and into the hall. Then I raised the veil to take my baby out, and I—I fell in a dead swoon."
He waited for her to go on again.
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"Try to imagine what it is to find in place of the living child you've laid in its bed with all the tenderness in your soul—to find in place of that a dirty, ugly, stuffed thing, about a baby's size.... For days after that I was just as if I was drugged. If I came to for a few minutes I prayed that I mightn't live. I didn't want to look the mother and father in the face."
"But hadn't you told them anything about it?"
"There was nothing to tell. The baby had vanished. I'd seen nothing; I'd heard nothing. Neither had my friend who was with me, and who's married now, in England. If an evil spirit had done it, it couldn't have been silenter, or more secret. It was a mystery then; it's been a mystery ever since."
"But you raised an alarm? You made a search?"
"The whole country raised the alarm. There wasn't a corner, or a suspicious character, that wasn't searched. We knew it had been done for ransom, and the ransom was ready if ever the baby had been returned. The father and mother were that frantic they'd have done anything. There never was a baby in the world more loved, or more lovable. All three of us—the father, the mother, and myself—would have died for him."
He grew interested in the story for its own sake. "And did you never get any idea at all?"
"Nothing that ever led to anything. For a good five years Mr. Whitelaw never rested. Mrs. Whitelaw—but it's no use trying to tell you. It can't be told; it can't be so much as imagined. Even when you've lived through it you wonder how you ever did. You wonder how you go on living day by day. It's
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 almost as if you were condemned to eternal punishment. The clues were the worst."
"You mean that—?"
"If we could have known that the child was dead—well, you make up your mind to that. After a while you can take up life again. But not to know anything! Just to be left wondering! Asking yourself what they're doing with him!—whether they're giving him the right kind of food!—whether they're giving him any kind of food!—whether they're going to kill him, and how they're going to kill him, and who's to do the killing! To go over these questions morning, noon, and night—to eat wit............