Chapter VIII “WHITE’S” Northwards, away from the inhospitality of West Kensington, rumbled the ancient four-wheel cab, laden with luggage and drawn by a wheezy old horse rapidly approaching its last days. “We suspect that Mary is alive, and we think she will try to contact you if she ever tracks you down. You've your own reasons, no doubt, for bringing up her son —perhaps, I ought rather to say your son, Mr. Basically a kindly man but made cynical and derisive by sordid contacts, O'Higgins had almost forgotten that there was such a thing as unselfishness. It was his heart. Fear nothing.
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