Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. Was it a week ago? No, perhaps more. I told the soldier how he must go by the passage, and he found it and brought it here. He returned, blue towel in hand. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. He only stays here for you, hoping in vain. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one.
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