At first he seemed inclined to dispute the detective’s order, but ultimately obeyed him, muttering, as he went out, something about “the blooming cheek of showin’ swells cove’s cribs.”  The child followed him out, her exit being accelerated by Mother Guttersnipe, who, with a rapidity only attained by long practice, seized the shoe from one of her feet, and flung it at the head of the rapidly retreating girl.

“Wait till I ketches yer, Lizer,” she shrieked, with a volley of oaths, “I’ll break yer ’ead for ye!”

Lizer responded with a shrill laugh of disdain, and vanished through the shaky door, which she closed after her.

When she had disappeared Mother Guttersnipe took a drink from the broken cup, and, gathering all her greasy cards together in a business-like way, looked insinuatingly at Calton, with a suggestive leer.

“It’s the future ye want unveiled, dearie?” she croaked, rapidly shuffling the cards; “an’ old mother ’ull tell—­”

“No she won’t,” interrupted the detective, sharply.  “I’ve come on business.”

The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her bushy eyebrows.

“What ’av the boys been up to now?” she asked, harshly.  “There ain’t no swag ’ere this time.”

Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of “Barbara Allen”—­

“Oh, mither, mither, mak’ my bed,
An’ mak’ it saft an’ narrow;
Since my true love died for me to-day
I’ll die for him to-morrow.”

“Shut up, cuss you!” yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, “or I’ll knock yer bloomin’ ’ead orf,” and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.

“The woman seems ill,” said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the stretcher.

“So she are,” growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily.  “She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin’ ‘ere an’ singin’ them beastly things, which makes my blood run cold.  Just ’ear ’er,” she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more—­

“Oh, little did my mither think,
When first she cradled me,
I’d die sa far away fra home,
Upon the gallows tree.”

“Yah!” said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the cup.  “She’s allays a-talkin’ of dyin’ an’ gallers, as if they were nice things to jawr about.”

“Who was that woman who died here three or four weeks ago?” asked Kilsip, sharply.

“’Ow should I know?” retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly.  “I didn’t kill ‘er, did I?  It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin’, cuss her.”

“Do you remember the night she died?”

“No, I don’t,” answered the beldame, frankly.  “I were drunk—­blind, bloomin’, blazin’ drunk—­s’elp me.”

“You’re always drunk,” said Kilsip.