My name’s Snowdon, sir—­Jane Snowdon.’

She reddened over all her face as soon as she had given utterance to the impulsive words.  The barman was regarding her with a sort of semi-interest, and Mr. Squibbs also had fixed his bleary (or beery) eyes upon her.  Neither would have admitted an active interest in so pale and thin and wretchedly-clad a little mortal.  Her hair hung loose, and had no covering; it was hair of no particular colour, and seemed to have been for a long time utterly untended; the wind, on her run hither, had tossed it into much disorder.  Signs there were of some kind of clothing beneath the short, dirty, worn dress, but it was evidently of the scantiest description.  The freely exposed neck was very thin, but, like the outline of her face, spoke less of a feeble habit of body than of the present pinch of sheer hunger.  She did not, indeed, look like one of those children who are born in disease and starvation, and put to nurse upon the pavement; her limbs were shapely enough, her back was straight, she had features that were not merely human, but girl-like, and her look had in it the light of an intelligence generally sought for in vain among the children of the street.  The blush and the way in which she hung her head were likewise tokens of a nature endowed with ample sensitiveness.

‘Oh, your name’s Jane Snowdon, is it?’ said the barman.  ’Well, you’re just three minutes an’ three-quarters too late.  P’r’aps it’s a fortune a-runnin’ after you.  He was a rum old party as inquired.  Never mind; it’s all in a life.  There’s fortunes lost every week by a good deal less than three minutes when it’s ’orses—­eh, Mr. Squibbs?’

Mr. Squibbs swore with emphasis.

The little girl took her jug of beer and was turning away.

‘Hollo!’ cried the barman.  ’Where’s the money, Jane?—­if you don’t mind.’

She turned again in increased confusion, and laid coppers on the counter.  Thereupon the man asked her where she lived; she named a house in Clerkenwell Close, near at hand.

‘Father live there?’

She shook her head.

‘Mother?’

‘I haven’t got one, sir.’

‘Who is it as you live with, then?’

‘Mrs. Peckover, sir.’

‘Well, as I was sayin’, he was a queer old joker as arsted for the name of Snowdon.  Shouldn’t wonder if you see him goin’ round.’

And he added a pretty full description of this old man, to which the girl listened closely.  Then she went thoughtfully—­a little sadly—­on her way.

In the street, all but dark by this time, she cast anxious glances onwards and behind, but no old man in an odd hat and cloak and with white hair was discoverable.  Linger she might not.  She reached a house of which the front-door stood open; it looked black and cavernous within; but she advanced with the step of familiarity, and went downstairs to a front-kitchen.  Through the half-open door came a strong odour and a hissing sound, plainly due to the frying of sausages.  Before Jane could enter she was greeted sharply in a voice which was young and that of a female, but had no other quality of graciousness.