Cast Adrift

“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?”