"Then that is your real name, ain't it?"
He thought it best to agree with her. "Yes'm."
"Then if anybody asked you, you'd tell them that?"
"Yes'm." He kept unexpressed a mental reservation.
"What did you think of your mother?"
He could not reply; he had no opinion of his mother. His silence seemed to satisfy the woman, and his gaze went to the rings upon her hands, one of which, distinctly unforgettable, recalled his dead mother's thin hands stretched stiffly on the coverlet.
"You have her ring," he said.
She laughed. "That's right," she assented. "She was the bad one; I was the good one. Now I wear her things."
Comprehension was coming to him; he had thought that the man must be Lampert and now he was sure.
