For a few days she was fascinated by the place, exploring the moldy rooms, the weird treasures hiding in forgotten trousseaus. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. I saw her come out from the flat buildings two minutes before we entered it last night. For the first time a definite doubt possessed him. “I am giving my understudy a chance. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. She was practically an outcast, she had not even the ghost of a plan as to her future, and she had something less than five pounds in her pocket. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. The investigators should have thought to check inside the garbage can. Then she stood up and looked around the room. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent.
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