He looked at her. "My father was," he answered briefly. "In my own
case, I have grave doubts. What do you think?" he asked the woman,
looking no lower than her eyes.
She fed the baby deftly. "Oh, Mr. Williston, don't talk so--of
course you're a gentleman!" she cried, "you couldn't help about the
money. You did your best."
His mouth twisted pitifully.
"That'll do," he said, "what does this child mean? Who is your
cousin? Where does he live?"
"He lives on Madison Avenue," Caroline began eagerly, "but I mustn't
tell you his last name, you know, because he doesn't want you to
know. That's just it. But he'd love the baby. I could take it right
back in the automobile."
The man felt in under his coat and detached from his waistcoat a
small gold pin. He tore a strip of wrapping paper from the open box
near him and wrote rapidly on it.
"There," he said, fastening the pin into the folded paper, "I'm glad
I never pawned it. If your cousin is a Harvard man, the pin will be
enough, but he can look me up from this paper--all he wants. They're
all dead but me, though. Here, wait a moment!"
He went back into the sitting room and fumbled in a heap of waste
paper on the floor, picked out of it a stiff sheet torn once
through, and attached it with the gold pin to the bit of writing.
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