“Because some one locked the gate on me, sir, while I was hiding under the shed where the dustbins are.”

“I quite see,” said Mr. Prohack, “I quite see.  But why did you go down into the area?  Were you begging, or what?”

“Me begging, sir!” she exclaimed, and ceased to cry, fortified by the tonic of aroused pride.

“No, of course you weren’t begging,” said Mr. Prohack.  “You may have given to beggars—­”

“That I have, sir.”  She cried again.

“But you don’t beg.  I quite see.  Then what?”

“It’s no use me a-trying to tell you, sir.  You won’t believe me.”  Her voice was extraordinarily thin and weak, and seldom achieved anything that could fairly be called pronunciation.

“I shall,” said Mr. Prohack.  “I’m a great believer.  You try me.  You’ll see.”

“It’s like this.  I was converted last night, and that’s where the trouble began, if it’s the last word I ever speak.”

“Theology?” murmured Mr. Prohack, turning to look at her and marvelling at the romantic quality of basements.

“There was a mission on at the Methodists’ in Paddington Street, and in I went.  Seems strange to me to be going into a Methodists’, seeing as I’m so friendly with Mr. Milcher.”

“Who is Mr. Milcher?”

“Milcher’s the sexton at St. Nicodemus, sir.  Or I should say sacristan.  They call him sacristan instead of sexton because St. Nicodemus is High, as I daresay you know, sir, living so close.”

Mr. Prohack was conscious of a slight internal shiver, which he could not explain, unless it might be due to a subconscious premonition of unpleasantness to come.

“I know that I live close to St. Nicodemus,” he replied.  “Very close.  Too close.  But I did not know how High St. Nicodemus was.  However, I’m interrupting you.”  He perceived with satisfaction that his gift of inspiring people with confidence was not failing him on this occasion.

“Well, sir, as I was saying, it might, as you might say, seem strange me popping like that into the Methodists’, seeing what Milcher’s views are; but my mother was a Methodist in Canonbury,—­a great place for dissenters, sir, North London, you know, sir, and they do say blood’s thicker than water.  So there I was, and the Mission a-going on, and as soon as ever I got inside that chapel I knew I was done in.  I never felt so all-overish in all my days, and before I knew where I was I had found salvation.  And I was so happy, you wouldn’t believe.  I come out of that Methodists’ as free like as if I was coming out of a hospital, and God knows I’ve been in a hospital often enough for my varicose veins, in the legs, sir.  You might almost have guessed I had ’em, sir, from the kind way you told me to sit down, sir.  And I was just wondering how I should break it to Milcher, sir, because me passing St. Nicodemus made me think of him—­not as I’m not always thinking of him—­and I looked up at the