I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and looking round, I found Sinfi by my side.

‘Does he belong to you, my gal?’

‘Yis,’ said Sinfi, with a strange, deep ring in her rich contralto voice.  ’Yis, he belongs to me now—­leastways he’s my pal now—­whatever comes on it.’

’Then take him away, my wench.  What’s the matter with him?  The old complaint, I s’pose,’ he added, lifting his hand to his mouth as though drinking from a glass.

Sinfi gently put out her hand and brushed the man aside.

‘I’ve bin a-followin’ on you all the way, brother,’ said Sinfi, as we moved out of the cemetery, ’for your looks skeared me a bit.  Let’s go away from this place.’

‘But whither, Sinfi?  I have no friend but you; I have no home.’

’No home, brother?  The kairengros [Footnote] has got about everythink, ‘cept the sky an’ the wind, an’ you’re one o’ the richest kairengros on ’em all—­leastways so I wur told t’other day in Kingston Vale.  It’s the Romanies, brother, as ’ain’t got no home ‘cept the sky an’ the wind.  Howsumever, that’s nuther here nor there; we’ll jist go to the woman they told me on, an’ if there’s any truth to be torn out of her, out it’ll ha’ to come, if I ha’ to tear out her windpipe with it.’

[Footnote:  The house-dwellers.]

We took a cab and were soon in Primrose Court.

The front door was wide open—­fastened back.  Entering the narrow common passage, we rapped at a dingy inner door.  It was opened by a pretty girl, whose thick chestnut hair and eyes to match contrasted richly with the dress she wore—­a dirty black dress, with great patches of lining bursting through holes like a whity-brown froth.

‘Meg Gudgeon?’ said the girl in answer to our inquiries; and at first she looked at us rather suspiciously, ’upstairs, she’s very bad—­like to die—­I’m a-seein’ arter ’er.  Better let ’er alone; she bites when she’s in ‘er tantrums.’

‘We’s friends o’ hern,’ said Sinfi, whose appearance and decisive voice seemed to reassure the girl.

‘Oh, if you’re friends that’s different,’ said she.  ’Meg’s gone off ’er ’ead; thinks the p’leace in plain clothes are after ‘er.’

We went up the stairs.  The girl followed us.  When we reached a low door, Sinfi proposed that she should remain outside on the landing, but within ear-shot, as ‘the sight o’ both on us, all of a suddent, might make the poor body all of a dither if she was very ill.’

The girl then opened the door and went in.  I heard the woman’s voice say in answer to her,

’Friend?  Who is it?  Are you sure, Poll, it ain’t a copper in plain clothes come about that gal?’

The girl came out, and signalling me to enter, went leisurely downstairs.  Leaving Sinfi outside on the landing, I entered the room.  There, on a sort of truckle-bed in one corner, I saw the woman.  She slowly raised herself up on her elbows to stare at me.  I took for granted that she would recognise me at once; but either because she was in drink when I saw her last, or because she had got the idea of a policeman in plain clothes, she did not seem to know me.  Then a look of dire alarm broke over her face and she said,