“Suppose I were to do so?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing the anger that was in her heart, and speaking with some degree of calmness.

“What then?”

“The police would be down on you in less than an hour.”

“And what then?”

“Your game would be up.”

Pinky laughed derisively: 

“The police are down on me now, and have been coming down on me for nearly a month past.  But I’m too much for them.  I know how to cover my tracks.”

“Down on you!  For what?”

“They’re after the boy.”

“What do they know about him?  Who set them after him?”

“I grabbed him up last Christmas down in Briar street after being on his track for a week, and them that had him are after him sharp.”

“Who had him?”

“I’m a little puzzled at the rumpus it has kicked up,” said Pinky, in reply.  “It’s stirred things amazingly.”

“How?”

“Oh, as I said, the police are after me sharp.  They’ve had me before the mayor twice, and got two or three to swear they saw me pick up the child in Briar street and run off with him.  But I denied it all.”

“And I can swear that you confessed it all to me,” said Mrs. Bray, with ill-concealed triumph.

“It won’t do, Fan,” laughed Pinky.  “They’ll not be able to find him any more then than now.  But I wish you would.  I’d like to know this Mr. Somebody of whom you spoke.  I’ll sell out to him.  He’ll bid high, I’m thinking.”

Baffled by her sharper accomplice, and afraid to trust her with the secret of the child’s parentage lest she should rob her of the last gain possible to receive out of this great iniquity, Mrs. Bray became wrought up to a state of ungovernable passion, and in a blind rage pushed Pinky from her room.  The assault was sudden and unexpected—–­so sudden that Pinky, who was the stronger, had no time to recover herself and take the offensive before she was on the outside and the door shut and locked against her.  A few impotent threats and curses were interchanged between the two infuriated women, and then Pinky went away.

On the day following, as Mr. Dinneford was preparing to go out, he was informed that a lady had called and was waiting down stairs to see him.  She did not send her card nor give her name.  On going into the room where the visitor had been shown, he saw a little woman with a dark, sallow complexion.  She arose and came forward a step or two in evident embarrassment.

“Mr. Dinneford?” she said.

“That is my name, madam,” was replied.

“You do not know me?”

Mr. Dinneford looked at her closely, and then answered,

“I have not that pleasure, madam.”

The woman stood for a moment or two, hesitating.

“Be seated, madam,” said Mr. Dinneford.

She sat down, seeming very ill at ease.  He took a chair in front of her.

“You wish to see me?”