she won’t,” interrupted the detective, sharply. “I’ve come on business.”
The old woman started at this, and looked keenly at him from under her bushy eyebrows.
“What ‘av the boys been up to now?” she asked, harshly. “There ain’t no swag ‘ere this time.”
Just then the sick woman, who had been restlessly tossing on the bed, commenced singing a snatch of the quaint old ballad of “Barbara Allen”—
“Oh, mither, mither, mak’ my bed,
An’ mak’ it saft an’ narrow;
Since my true love died for me to-day
I’ll die for him to-morrow.”
“Shut up, cuss you!” yelled Mother Guttersnipe, viciously, “or I’ll knock yer bloomin’ ‘ead orf,” and she seized the square bottle as if to carry out her threat; but, altering her mind, she poured some of its contents into the cup, and drank it off with avidity.
“The woman seems ill,” said Calton, casting a shuddering glance at the stretcher.
“So she are,” growled Mother Guttersnipe, angrily. “She ought to be in Yarrer Bend, she ought, instead of stoppin’ ‘ere an’ singin’ them beastly things, which makes my blood run cold. Just ‘ear ‘er,” she said, viciously, as the sick woman broke out once more—
“Oh, little did my mither think,
When first she cradled me,
I’d die sa far away fra home,
Upon the gallows tree.”
“Yah!” said the old woman, hastily, drinking some more gin out of the cup. “She’s allays a-talkin’ of dyin’ an’ gallers, as if they were nice things to jawr about.”
“Who was that woman who died here three or four weeks ago?” asked Kilsip, sharply.
“‘Ow should I know?” retorted Mother Guttersnipe, sullenly. “I didn’t kill ‘er, did I? It were the brandy she drank; she was allays drinkin’, cuss her.”
“Do you remember the night she died?”
“No, I don’t,” answered the beldame, frankly. “I were drunk—blind, bloomin’, blazin’ drunk—s’elp me.”
“You’re always drunk,” said Kilsip.
“What if I am?” snarled the woman, seizing her bottle. “You don’t pay fur it. Yes, I’m drunk. I’m allays drunk. I was drunk last night, an’ the night before, an’ I’m a-goin’ to git drunk to-night”—with an impressive look at the bottle—“an’ to-morrow night, an’ I’ll keep it up till I’m rottin’ in the grave.”
Calton shuddered, so full of hatred and suppressed malignity was her voice, but the detective merely shrugged his shoulders.
“More fool you,” he said, briefly. “Come now, on the night the ‘Queen,’ as you call her, died, there was a gentleman came to see her?”
“So she said,” retorted Mother Guttersnipe; “but, lor, I dunno anythin’, I were drunk.”
“Who said—the ‘Queen?’”
“No, my gran’darter, Sal. The ‘Queen,’ sent ‘er to fetch the toff to see ‘er cut ‘er lucky. Wanted ‘im to look at ‘is work, I s’pose, cuss ‘im; and Sal prigged some paper from my box,” she shrieked, indignantly; “prigged it w’en I were too drunk to stop ‘er?”
The detective glanced at Calton, who nodded to him with a gratified expression on his face. They were right as to the paper having been stolen from the Villa at Toorak.
“You did not see the gentleman who came?” said Kilsip, turning again to the old hag.
“Not I, cuss you,” she retorted, politely. “‘E came about ‘arf-past one in the morning, an’ you don’t expects we can stop up all night, do ye?”
“Half-past one o’clock,” repeated Calton, quickly. “The very time. Is this true?”
“Wish I may die if it ain’t,” said Mother Guttersnipe, graciously. “My gran’darter Sal kin tell ye.”
“Where is she?” asked Kilsip, sharply.
At this the old woman threw back her head, and howled dismay.
“She’s ‘ooked it,” she wailed, drumming on the ground with her feet. “Gon’ an’ left ‘er pore old gran’ an’ joined the Army, cuss ‘em, a-comin’ round an’ a-spilin’ business.”
Here the woman on the bed broke out again—
“Since the flowers o’ the forest are a’ wed awa.”
“‘Old yer jawr,” yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising, and making a dart at the bed. “I’ll choke the life out ye, s’elp me. D’y want me to murder ye, singin’ ‘em funeral things?”
Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.
“The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was here between one and two o’clock,” he said, quickly, “is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I’ll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for her.”
“I hope you’ll find her,” answered Calton, drawing a long breath. “A man’s life hangs on her evidence.”
They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some loose silver, which she seized on with an avaricious clutch.
“You’ll drink it, I suppose?” said the barrister, shrinking back from her.
“Werry likely,” retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose. “I’m a forting to the public-‘ouse, I am, an’ it’s the on’y pleasure I ‘ave in my life, cuss it.”
The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs, as they went down, so that they should not break their heads. As they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, “The Last Rose of Summer.”
The street door was open, and, after groping their way along the dark passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.
“Thank heaven,” said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. “Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!”
“At all events, our journey has not been wasted,” said the detective, as they walked along. “We’ve found out where Mr. Fitzgerald was on the night of the murder, so he will be safe.”
“That depends upon Sal Rawlins,” answered Calton, gravely; “but come, let us have a glass of brandy, for
