There had been (Sam now explained) a false alarm.  In the midst of the merry-making, and while the roundabouts were crowded and going at full speed, the boy in charge of the engine had taken occasion to announce to the lady at the pay-table that his pressure was a hundred-and-forty-seven, and what had taken the safety valve he couldn’t think.  Whereupon the lady at the pay-table had started up, scattering her coins, and shrieked; and this had started the stampede.  “Which,” added Sam in a whisper to Tilda, “was lucky for us in a way; becos Glasson, after tacklin’ Mortimer be’ind the scenes an’ threatenin’ to have his blood in a bottle, had started off with Gavel to fetch the perlice.  An’ the question is if they won’t be watchin’ the gates by this time.”

“In my young days,” announced the Fat Lady, with disconcerting suddenness, “it was thought rude to whisper.”

Tilda took a swift resolution.

“The truth is, ma’am, we’re in trouble, an’ ‘idin’ ‘ere.  I wouldn’ dare to tell yer, on’y they say that people o’ your—­I mean, in your—­”

“Profession,” suggested the Fat Lady.

“—­Are kind-’earted by nature.  I belongs, ma’am—­leastways, I did,—­ to Maggs’s Circus—­if you know it—­”

“I’ve heard Maggs’s troupe very well spoken of.  But, as you’ll understand, I do very little visitin’.”

“I was ’appy enough with Maggs’s, ma’am.  But first of all a pony laid me up with a kick, an’ then I stole Arthur Miles ’ere out of the ’Oly Innercents—­”

Tilda broke down for a moment, recovered herself, and with sobs told her story.

For a while, after she had ended it, the Fat Lady kept silence.  Sam, breathing hard, still doubtful of the child’s bold policy, feared what this silence might portend.

“Give me your hand, young man,” said the Fat Lady at length.

Sam reached out in the darkness, and grasped hers fervently.

“I didn’t ask you to shake it.  I want to be helped out to the fresh air, and then these children’ll march straight home with me to my caravan.”

“But,” stammered Sam, not yet clear that he had found an ally, “—­but that’s leadin’ ’em straight into Gavel’s arms!”

“Young man,” replied the lady austerely, “it leads into no man’s arms.”  But a moment later she dropped her voice, and added with a touch of pathos, “I’m the loneliest woman in the world, outside of show hours; and if you thought a little you might know it.”

“I see,” said Sam contritely.

“And, what’s more, inside my own caravan I’ve my wits about me.  Outside and among folks—­well, maybe you’ve seen an owl in the daylight with the small birds mobbin’ him. . . .  Now about yourself and the Mortimers—­from this child’s story there’s no evidence yet to connect her or the boy with either of you.  The man Hucks knows, and that carrier fellow at the wharf saw them for a minute, with Mortimer standin’