“Aye!  I lay it all at the door of these ‘Friends’ who turned a mother’s heart against her own daughter,” continued Mistress de Chavasse vehemently.  “She never told me that she was sick, sent me neither letter nor message; only after her death a curt note came to me, writ in her hand, entrusted to one of her own co-worshipers, a canting, mouthing creature, who grinned whilst I read the heartless message.  My mother had sent her grandchildren away, so she told me in the letter, when she felt that the Lord was calling her to Him.  She had placed my boys—­my boys, master!—­in the care of a trusted ‘friend’ who would bring them up in the fear of God, away from the influence of their mother.  My boys, master, remember! ... they were to be brought up in ignorance of their name—­of the very existence of their mother.  The ‘friend,’ doubtless a fellow Quaker—­had agreed to this on my mother’s deathbed.”

“Hm! ’tis passing strange, and passing sad,” said the attorney, with real sympathy now, for there was a pathetic note of acute sorrow in Mistress de Chavasse’s voice, “but at the time ... hem ... and with money and influence ... hem ... much might have been done.”

“Ah! believe me, master, I did what I could.  I was in London then....  I flew to Canterbury where my mother lived....  I found her dead ... and the boys gone ... none of the neighbors could tell me whither....  All they knew was that a woman had been living with my mother of late and had gone away, taking the boys with her....  My boys, master, and no one could tell me whither they had gone!  I spent what money I had, and Sir Marmaduke nobly bore his share in the cost of a ceaseless search, as the Earl of Northallerton would do nothing then to help me.”

“Passing strange ... passing sad,” murmured Master Skyffington, shaking his head, “but methinks I recollect ... hem ... some six years ago ... a quest which led to a clew ... er ... that is ... two young gentlemen ...”

“Impostors, master,” she rejoined, “aye!  I have heard of many such since then.  At first I used to believe their stories ...”

“At first?” he ejaculated in amazement, “but surely ... hem ... the faces ... your own sons, ma’am ...”

“Ah! the faces!” she said, whilst a blush of embarrassment, even of shame, now suffused her pale cheeks.  “I mean ... you understand ...  I ...  I had not seen my boys since they were babes in arms ... they were ten years old when they were taken away ... but ... but it is nigh on twenty-two years since I have set eyes on their faces.  I would not know them, if they passed me by.”