Presently, in the midst of these thoughts, Hodder’s eyes were arrested by a crowd barring the sidewalk on the block ahead; no unusual sight in that neighbourhood, and yet one which aroused in him sensations of weakness and nausea.  Thus were the hidden vice and suffering of these sinister places occasionally brought to light, exposed to the curious and morbid stares of those whose own turn might come on the morrow.  It was only by degrees he comprehended that the people were gathered in front of the house to which they were bound.  An ambulance was seen to drive away:  it turned into the aide street in front of them.

“A city ambulance!” the rector exclaimed.

Mr. Bentley did not reply.

The murmuring group which overflowed the uneven brick pavement to the asphalt was characteristic:  women in calico, drudges, women in wrappers, with sleepy, awestricken faces; idlers, men and boys who had run out of the saloons, whose comments were more audible and caustic, and a fringe of children ceaselessly moving on the outskirts.  The crowd parted at their approach, and they reached the gate, where a burly policeman, his helmet in his hand, was standing in the morning sunlight mopping his face with a red handkerchief.  He greeted Mr. Bentley respectfully, by name, and made way for them to pass in.

“What is the trouble, Ryan?” Mr. Bentley asked.

“Suicide, sir,” the policeman replied.  “Jumped off the bridge this morning.  A tug picked him up, but he never came to—­the strength wasn’t in him.  Sure it’s all wore out he was.  There was a letter on him, with the home number, so they knew where to fetch him.  It’s a sad case, sir, with the woman in there, and the child gone to the hospital not an hour ago.”

“You mean Garvin?” Mr. Bentley demanded.

“It’s him I mean, sir.”

“We’d like to go in,” said Mr. Bentley.  “We came to see them.”

“You’re welcome, air, and the minister too.  It’s only them I’m holdin’ back,” and the policeman shook his stick at the people.

Mr. Bentley walked up the steps, and took off his hat as he went through the battered doorway.  Hodder followed, with a sense of curious faces staring at them from the thresholds as they passed; they reached the upper passage, and the room, and paused:  the shutters were closed, the little couch where the child had been was empty.  On the bed lay a form —­covered with a sheet, and beside it a woman kneeling, shaken by sobs, ceaselessly calling a name . . . .

A stout figure, hitherto unperceived, rose from a corner and came silently toward them—­Mrs. Breitmann.  She beckoned to them, and they followed her into a room on the same floor, where she told them what she knew, heedless of the tears coursing ceaselessly down her cheeks.