Waife (echoing the words as he staggers back). "I thought so—I thought it!"
Mayor. "In so doing I obeyed the law—he had legal power to enforce his demand." The Mayor's voice was almost apologetic in its tone, for he was affected by Waife's anguish, and not able to silence a pang of remorse. After all, he had been trusted; and he had, excusably perhaps, necessarily perhaps, but still he had failed to fulfil the trust. "But," added the Mayor, as if reassuring himself—"But I refused at first to give her up, even to her own father; at first insisted upon waiting till your return; and it was only when I was informed what you yourself were that my scruples gave way."
Waife remained long silent, breathing very hard, and passing his hand several times over his forehead; at last he said more quietly than he had yet spoken, "Will you tell me where they have gone?"
"I do not know, and if I did know I would not tell you! Are they not right when they say that that innocent child should not be tempted away by—by—a—in short, by you, Sir?"
"They said! Her father—said that!—he said that! Did he—did he say it? Had he the heart?"
Mayor. "No, I don't think he said it. Eh, Mr. Williams? He spoke little to me!"
Mr. Williams. "Of course he would not expose that person. But the woman—the lady, I mean."
Waife. "Woman! Ah, yes. The bailiff's wife said there was a woman. What woman? What's her name?"
Mayor. "Really you must excuse me. I can say no more. I have consented to see you thus, because whatever you might have been, or may be, still it was due to myself to explain how I came to give up the child; and, besides, you left money with me, and that, at least, I can give to your own hand."
The Mayor turned to his desk, unlocked it, and drew forth the bag which Waife had sent to him.
As he extended it toward the Comedian, his hand trembled and his cheek flushed. For Waife's one bright eye had in it such depths of reproach, that again the Mayor's conscience was sorely troubled, and he would have given ten times the contents of that bag to have been alone with the vagrant, and to have said the soothing things he did not dare to say before Williams, who sat there mute and grim, guarding him from being once more "taken in." "If you had confided in me at first, Mr. Chapman," he said, pathetically, "or even if now, I could aid you in an honest way of life!"
