"Good afternoon," I said. Jamieson lifted his hat, without speaking.
"I came to inquire about a child named Lucien Wallace."
"I am glad you have come," she said. "In spite of the other children,
I think the little fellow is lonely. We thought perhaps his mother
would be here to-day."
Mr. Jamieson stepped forward.
"You are Mrs. Tate?" I wondered how the detective knew.
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Tate, we want to make some inquiries. Perhaps in the house--"
"Come right in," she said hospitably. And soon we were in the little
shabby parlor, exactly like a thousand of its prototypes. Mrs. Tate sat
uneasily, her hands folded in her lap.
"How long has Lucien been here?" Mr. Jamieson asked.
"Since a week ago last Friday. His mother paid one week's board in
advance; the other has not been paid."
"Was he ill when he came?"
"No, sir, not what you'd call sick. He was getting better of typhoid,
she said, and he's picking up fine."
"Will you tell me his mother's name and address?"
"That's the trouble," the young woman said, knitting her brows. "She
gave her name as Mrs. Wallace, and said she had no address. She was
looking for a boarding-house in town. She said she worked in a
department store, and couldn't take care of the child properly, and he
needed fresh air and milk. I had three children of my own, and one
more didn't make much difference in the work, but--I wish she would pay
this week's board."
"Did she say what store it was?"
"No, sir, but all the boy's clothes came from King's. He has far too
fine clothes for the country."
There was a chorus of shouts and shrill yells from the front door,
followed by the loud stamping of children's feet and a throaty "whoa,
whoa!" Into the room came a tandem team of two chubby youngsters, a
boy and a girl, harnessed with a clothes-line, and driven by a laughing
boy of about seven, in tan overalls and brass buttons. The small
driver caught my attention at once: he was a beautiful child, and,
although he showed traces of recent severe illness, his skin had now
the clear transparency of health.
"Whoa, Flinders," he shouted. "You're goin' to smash the trap."
Mr. Jamieson coaxed him over by holding out a lead-pencil, striped blue
and yellow.
"Now, then," he said, when the boy had taken the lead-pencil and was
testing its usefulness on the detective's cuff, "now then, I'll bet you
don't know what your name is!"
"I do," said the boy. "Lucien Wallace."
"Great! And what's your mother's name?"
"Mother, of course. What's your mother's name?" And he pointed to me!
I am going to stop wearing black: it doubles a woman's age.