This candid proposal took Miss Mackenzie’s breath away.  To become the owner of Baubie Wishart, even at so low a price, seemed to her rather a heathenish proceeding, with a flavor of illegality about it to boot.  There was a vacancy at the home for little girls which might be made available for the little wretch without the necessity of any preliminary of this kind; and it did not occur to her that it was a matter of any moment whether Mr. Wishart continued to exercise the role of “sandwich-man” or returned to his normal profession of banjo-player.  Baubie was to be got hold of in any case.  With the muttered adjuration of the wretched girl in Kennedy’s Lodgings echoing in her ears, Miss Mackenzie determined that she should be left no longer than could be helped in that company.

How earnest and matter of fact she was in delivering her extraordinary errand! thought Miss Mackenzie to herself, meeting the eager gaze of Baubie Wishart’s eyes, looking out from beneath her tangle of hair like those of a Skye terrier.

“I will speak to your father myself, Baubie—­tell him so—­to-morrow, perhaps:  tell him I mean to settle about you myself.  Now go.”

The least possible flicker of disappointment passed over Baubie’s face.  The tangled head drooped for an instant, then she bobbed by way of adieu and vanished.

That day and the next passed before Miss Mackenzie found it possible to pay her long-promised visit to Mr. Wishart, and when, about eleven in the forenoon, she once more entered the big kitchen in Kennedy’s Lodgings, she was greeted with the startling intelligence that the whole Wishart family were in prison.

The room was as full as before.  Six women were sitting in the middle of the floor teasing out an old hair mattress.  There was the same odor of cooking, early as it was, and the same medley of noises, but the people were different.  The basket-making cripple was gone, and in his place by the window sat a big Irish beggar-woman, who was keeping up a conversation with some one (a compatriot evidently) in a window of the close behind.

The mistress of the house came forward.  She was a decent-looking little woman, but had rather a hard face, expressive of care and anxiety.  On recognizing her visitor she curtsied:  “The Wisharts, mem?  Yes, they’re a’ in jail.”

“All in jail?” echoed Miss Mackenzie.  “Will you come outside and speak to me?  There are so many people—­”

“Eh yes, mem:  I’m sure ye fin’ the room closs.  Eh yes, mem, the Wisharts are a’ in the lock-up.”

They were standing outside in the passage, and Mrs. Kennedy held the door closed by the latch, which she kept firmly grasped in her hand.  It struck Miss Mackenzie as being an odd way to secure privacy for a privileged communication, to fasten the door of their room upon those inside.  It was expressive, however.