“My friend,” she said, “I have been your pupil for two years. ‘Now then, girl. Annabel Pellissier was not like the others, he said. Yes!" she screamed, "these are his father's features! It is—it is my son!" "Mother!" cried Thames; "are you, indeed, my mother?" "I am, indeed—my own sweet boy!" she sobbed, pressing him tenderly to her breast. He would teach her all he knew of life so that if the Hand should ever reach his shoulder, she would be able to defend herself. But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction.
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