‘Where are you?’

Emma could not be seen.  Astonished and enraged, Ada rushed forward; she found the girl lying on the floor, and after bending over her, started back with a cry half of alarm, half of disgust.

‘Come up here at once!’ she screamed down the staircase.  ’Come up!  The wretch has cut her throat!’

There was a rush of feet.  Peachey, the first to enter, saw a gash on the neck of the insensible girl; in her hand she held a pair of scissors.

‘I hope you’re satisfied,’ he said to his wife.

The police-officer, animated by a brisk succession of events such as he could not hope for every day, raised the prostrate figure, and speedily announced that the wound was not mortal.

’She’s fainted, that’s all.  Tried to do for herself with them scissors, and didn’t know the way to go about it.  We’ll get her off sharp to the surgeon.’

‘It’ll be attempted suicide, now, as well as stealing,’ cried Ada.

Terrified by the crowd of noisy people, the child began to cry loudly.  Peachey lifted him out of the cot, wrapped a blanket about him, and carried him down to his own bedroom.  There, heedless of what was going on above, he tried to soothe the little fellow, lavishing caresses and tender words.

’My little boy will be good?  He’ll wait here, quietly, till father comes back?  Only a few minutes, and father will come back, and sit by him.  Yes—­he shall sleep here, all night—­’

Ada burst into the room.

’I should think you’d better go and look after your dear Emma.  As if I didn’t know what’s been going on!  It’s all come out, so you needn’t tell me any lies.  You’ve been giving her money.  The other servants knew of it; she confessed it herself.  Oh, you’re a nice sort of man, you are!  Men of your sort are always good at preaching to other people.  You’ve given her money—­what does that mean?  I suspected it all along.  You wouldn’t have her sent away; oh no!  She was so good to the child—­and so good to somebody else!  A dirty servant!  I’d choose some one better than that, if I was a man.  How much has she cost you?  As much, no doubt, as one of the swell women in Piccadilly Circus—­’

Peachey turned upon her, the sweat beading on his ghastly face.

’Go!—­Out of this room—­or by God I shall do something fearful!  —­Out!’

She backed before him.  He seized her by the shoulders, and flung her forth, then locked the door.  From without she railed at him in the language of the gutter and the brothel.  Presently her shouts were mingled with piercing shrieks; they came from the would-be-suicide, who, restored to consciousness, was being carried down for removal in the cab.  Peachey, looking and feeling like a man whom passion had brought within sight of murder, stopped his ears and huddled himself against the bedside.  The child screamed in terror.

At length came silence.  Peachey opened the door, and listened.  Below, voices sounded in quiet conversation.