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“It isn’t a joke,” she said. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. His age was not far from fifty. To-morrow they will know the truth. Lucy tried not to make her cringe noticeable. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. They are not your children, they never were. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. Do you know, Ann Veronica, it is all a lie about your birth certificate; a forgery—and fooling at that. While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage.
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