Madame Montford listens with increasing anxiety; Mr. Detective Fitzgerald proceeds:  “‘Get a light here, then;’ says I. You couldn’t see nothing, it was so dark, but you could hear ’em move, and breathe.  And then the place was so hot and sickly.  Had to stand it best way I could.  There was no standing straight in the dismal place, which was wet and nasty under foot, and not more nor twelve by fourteen.  The old woman said she had only a dozen lodgers in; when she made out to get a light for me I found she had twenty-three, tucked away here and there, under straw and stuff.  Well, it was curious to see ’em (here the detective wipes his forehead with his handkerchief) rise up, one after another, all round you, you know, like fiends that had been buried for a time, then come to life merely to get something to eat.”

“And did you find the woman-and was she one of them?”

“That’s what I’m comin’ at.  Well, I caught a sight at the woman; knew her at the glance.  I got a sight at her one night in the Pit at the House of the Nine Nations.  ‘Here!  I wants you,’ says I, takin’ what there was left of her by the arm.  She shrieked, and crouched down, and begged me not to hurt her, and looked wilder than a tiger at me.  And then the whole den got into a fright, and young women, and boys, and men-they were all huddled together-set up such a screaming.  ‘Munday!’ says I, ’you don’t go to the Tombs-here!  I’ve got good news for you.’  This quieted her some, and then I picked her up-she was nearly naked-and seeing she wanted scrubbing up, carried her out of the Hole, and made her follow me to my house, where we got her into some clothes, and seeing that she was got right in her mind, I thought it would be a good time to question her.”

“If you will hasten the result of your search, it will, my good sir, relieve my feelings much!” again interposes the lady, drawing her chair nearer the detective.

“‘You’ve had,’ I says to her, ’a hard enough time in this world, and now here’s the man what’s going to be a friend to ye-understand that!’ says I, and she looked at me bewildered.  We gave her something to eat, and a pledge that no one would harm her, and she tamed down, and began to look up a bit.  ’Your name wasn’t always Munday?’ says I, in a way that she couldn’t tell what I was after.  She said she had taken several names, but Munday was her right name.  Then she corrected herself-she was weak and hoarse-and said it was her husband’s name.  ‘You’ve a good memory, Mrs. Munday,’ says I; ’now, just think as far back as you can, and tell us where you lived as long back as you can think.’  She shook her head, and began to bury her face in her hands.  I tried for several minutes, but could get nothing more out of her.  Then she quickened up, shrieked out that she had just got out of the devil’s regions, and made a rush for the door.”

CHAPTER XLIII.

In which is revealed the one error that brought so much suffering upon many.