“What do you want?” said a sharp voice from within.

“I should like to see you a moment,” was the reply.

Peg opened the door partially, and regarded the young man suspiciously.

“I don’t know you,” she said, shortly.  “I never saw you before.”

“I presume not,” said the young man.  “We have never met, I think.  I am an artist.”

“That is a business I don’t know anything about,” said Peg, abruptly.  “You’ve come to the wrong place.  I don’t want to buy any pictures.  I’ve got plenty of other ways to spend my money.”

Certainly, Mrs. Hardwick, to give her the name she once claimed, did not look like a patron of the arts.

“You have a young girl, about eight or nine years old, living with you,” said the artist.

“Who told you that?” queried Peg, her suspicions at once roused.

“No one told me.  I saw her with you in the street.”

Peg at once conceived the idea that her visitor was aware of the fact that that the child was stolen—­possibly he might be acquainted with the Crumps, or might be their emissary.  She therefore answered, shortly,—­

“People that are seen walking together don’t always live together.”

“But I saw the child entering this house with you.”

“What if you did?” demanded Peg, defiantly.

“I was about,” said the artist, perceiving that he was misapprehended, and desiring to set matters right, “I was about to make a proposition which might prove advantageous to both of us.”

“Eh!” said Peg, catching at the hint.  “Tell me what it is, and perhaps we may come to terms.”

“It is simply this,” said Bowen, “I am, as I told you, an artist.  Just now I am employed to sketch a flower-girl, and in seeking for a face such as I wished to sketch from, I was struck by that of your child.”

“Of Ida?”

“Yes, if that is her name.  I will pay you five dollars for the privilege of copying it.”

Peg was fond of money, and the prospect of earning five dollars through Ida’s instrumentality, so easily, blinded her to the possibility that this picture might prove a means of discovery to her friends.

“Well,” said she, more graciously, “if that’s all you want, I don’t know as I have any objections.  I suppose you can copy her face here as well as anywhere.”

“I should prefer to have her come to my studio.”

“I sha’n’t let her come,” said Peg, decidedly.

“Then I will consent to your terms, and come here.”

“Do you want to begin now?”

“I should like to do so.”

“Come in, then.  Here, Ida, I want you.”

“Yes, Peg.”

“This young man wants to copy your face.”

Ida looked surprised.

“I am an artist,” said the young man, with a reassuring smile.  “I will endeavor not to try your patience too much.  Do you think you can stand still for half an hour, without much fatigue?”