“’Bout the ‘Queen,’ sir?” said Sal, in a low, hoarse voice, fixing her wild eyes on Calton.  “If I’d only known as you was a-wantin’ me I’d ’ave come afore.”

“Where were you?” asked Calton, in a pitying tone.

“Noo South Wales,” answered the girl with a shiver.  “The cove as I went with t’ Sydney left me—­yes, left me to die like a dog in the gutter.”

“Cuss ’im!” croaked the old woman in a sympathetic manner, as she took a drink from the broken cup.

“I tooked up with a Chinerman,” went on her granddaughter, wearily, “an’ lived with ’im for a bit—­it’s orful, ain’t it?” she said with a dreary laugh, as she saw the disgust on the lawyer’s face.  “But Chinermen ain’t bad; they treat a pore girl a dashed sight better nor a white cove does.  They don’t beat the life out of ’em with their fists, nor drag ’em about the floor by the ’air.”

“Cuss ’em!” croaked Mother Guttersnipe, drowsily, “I’ll tear their ’earts out.”

“I think I must have gone mad, I must,” said Sal, pushing her tangled hair off her forehead, “for arter I left the Chiner cove, I went on walkin’ and walkin’ right into the bush, a-tryin’ to cool my ’ead, for it felt on fire like.  I went into a river an’ got wet, an’ then I took my ‘at an’ boots orf an’ lay down on the grass, an’ then the rain comed on, an’ I walked to a ’ouse as was near, where they tooked me in.  Oh, sich kind people,” she sobbed, stretching out her hands, “that didn’t badger me ’bout my soul, but gave me good food to eat.  I gave ’em a wrong name.  I was so ‘fraid of that Army a-findin’ me.  Then I got ill, an’ knowd nothin’ for weeks They said I was orf my chump.  An’ then I came back ’ere to see gran’.”

“Cuss ye,” said the old woman, but in such a tender tons that it sounded like a blessing.

“And did the people who took you in never tell you anything about the murder?” asked Calton.

Sal shook her head.

“No, it were a long way in the country, and they never knowd anythin’, they didn’t.”

“Ah! that explains it,” muttered Calton to himself.

“Come, now,” he said cheerfully, “tell me all that happened on the night you brought Mr. Fitzgerald to see the ‘Queen.’”

“Who’s ’e?” asked Sal, puzzled.

“Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman you brought the letter for to the Melbourne Club.”

“Oh, ’im?” said Sal, a sudden light breaking over her wan face.  “I never knowd his name afore.”

Calton nodded complacently.

“I knew you didn’t,” he said, “that’s why you didn’t ask for him at the Club.”

“She never told me ’is name,” said Sal, jerking her head in the direction of the bed.

“Then whom did she ask you to bring to her?” asked Calton, eagerly.

“No one,” replied the girl.  “This was the way of it.  On that night she was orfil ill, an’ I sat beside ‘er while gran’ was asleep.”

“I was drunk,” broke in gran’, fiercely, “none of yer lies; I was blazin’ drunk.”