Doctor Glasson did not answer for a few seconds.  He seemed to be considering.  His eyes blinked, and the folds of his lean throat worked as if he swallowed down something.

“I will be frank with you, Mr. Hucks,” he said at length.  “There may or may not be, as you put it, money in this.  I have kept this child for close upon eight years, and during the last two the Orphanage has not received one penny of payment.  He was brought to us at the age of two by a seafaring man, who declared positively that the child was not his, that he was legitimate, and that he had relatives in good position.  The man would not tell me their names, but gave me his own and his address—­a coast-guard station on the East coast.  You will pardon my keeping these back until I know that you will help me.”

“Go on.”

“Sufficiently good terms were offered, and for six years my charges were regularly met without question.  Then payment ceased.  My demands for an explanation came back through the Dead Letter Office, and when I followed them up by a journey to the address given, it was to learn that my man—­a chief boatman in the coast-guard service—­had died three months before, leaving no effects beyond a pound or two and the contents of his sea-chest—­no will—­and, so far as could be traced, no kith or kin.  So far, Mr. Hucks, the business does not look promising.”

“All right, Glasson.  You keep a child for two years on charity, and then get into a sweat on losing him.  I trust your scent, and am not disheartened—­yet.”

“The boy has considerable natural refinement.”

“You didn’t keep him for that?”

“It has often suggested to me that his parentage was out of the ordinary—­that he probably has relatives at least—­er—­well-to-do.  But the main point is that he did not escape to-day of his own accord.  He was kidnapped, and in circumstances that convince me there has been a deliberate plot.  To my mind it is incredible that these children, without collusion—­” But here Doctor Glasson pulled himself up and sat blinking.

“Eh?  Was there more than one?” queried Mr. Hucks, sharp as a knife.

“There was a small girl, not one of my charges.  She called on me shortly after midday with a story that an aunt of hers, who may or may not exist, but whom she pretended to anticipate, took an interest in this child.  While she waited for this aunt’s arrival, the—­er—­matron, Mrs. Huggins, incautiously allowed her access to the kitchen garden, where—­without my knowledge and against my rules—­the boy happened to be working.  The pair of them have disappeared; and, further, I have convinced myself that their exit was made by way of the coal-shaft.”

“A small girl, you say?  What age?”

“About ten, as nearly as I can guess.  A slip of a child, very poorly dressed, and walking with a decided limp.”

“I follow you this far,” said Mr. Hucks, ruminating. “—­Allowin’ there’s a plot, if ‘tis worth folks’ while to get hold o’ the child, ’tis worth your while to get him back from ’em.  But are you sure there’s a plot?  There it don’t seem to me you’ve made out your case.”