“I want you to learn English, and not a confusion of tongues like this thing.  But it’s too hot for lessons, Sal,” she went on, leaning back in her seat, “so get a chair and talk to me.”

Sal complied, and Madge looked out at the brilliant flower-beds, and at the black shadow of the tall witch elm which grew on one side of the lawn.  She wanted to ask a certain question of Sal, and did not know how to do it.  The moodiness and irritability of Brian had troubled her very much of late, and, with the quick instinct of her sex, she ascribed it indirectly to the woman who had died in the back slum.  Anxious to share his troubles and lighten his burden, she determined to ask Sal about this mysterious woman, and find out, if possible, what secret had been told to Brian which affected him so deeply.

“Sal,” she said, after a short pause, turning her clear grey eyes on the woman, “I want to ask you something.”

The other shivered and turned pale.

“About—­about that?”

Madge nodded.

Sal hesitated for a moment, and then flung herself at the feet of her mistress.

“I will tell you,” she cried.  “You have been kind to me, an’ have a right to know.  I will tell you all I know.”

“Then,” asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her. hands tightly together, “who was this woman whom Mr. Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she come from?”

“Gran’ an’ me found her one evenin’ in Little Bourke Street,” answered Sal, “just near the theatre.  She was quite drunk, an’ we took her home with us.”

“How kind of you,” said Madge.

“Oh, it wasn’t that,” replied the other, dryly.  “Gran’ wanted her clothes; she was awful swell dressed.”

“And she took the clothes—­how wicked!”

“Anyone would have done it down our way,” answered Sal, indifferently; “but Gran’ changed her mind when she got her home.  I went out to get some gin for Gran’, and when I came back she was huggin’ and kissin’ the woman.”

“She recognised her.”

“Yes, I s’pose so,” replied Sal, “an’ next mornin’, when the lady got square, she made a grab at Gran’, an’ hollered out, ‘I was comin’ to see you.’”

“And then?”

“Gran’ chucked me out of the room, an’ they had a long jaw; and then, when I come back, Gran’ tells me the lady is a-goin’ to stay with us ’cause she was ill, and sent me for Mr. Whyte.”

“And he came?”

“Oh, yes—­often,” said Sal.  “He kicked up a row when he first turned up, but when he found she was ill, he sent a doctor; but it warn’t no good.  She was two weeks with us, and then died the mornin’ she saw Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?”

“Lots,” returned Sal; “but he always turned Gran’ an’ me out of the room afore he started.”

“And”—­hesitating—­“did you ever overhear one of these conversations?”