From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. "If this is the case, where is she?" "In Bedlam," replied the thief-taker, with a Satanic grin. The Palazzo was unlike anything she had ever known. "Nothing you can say to the contrary will convince me that you have not been accessory to his flight. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order.
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