“Mrs. Warden, I believe,” said the stranger. “I saw your trap up here in the street, and I suppose this is your pocket book which I am bringing you,”
It belonged to her. Upon the smooth ivory was E.W. engraved in black.
“Just as I turned the corner, I saw it in the hands of a girl—one of the worst in the quarter. I am Superintendent of the Poor for this district.”
Mrs. Warden thanked him. When she turned toward the occupants of the room again, she was terrified at the change that had taken place. The man was sitting up in bed and staring at the stranger. The woman’s face wore a hateful expression, and the lame child on the floor, propped up upon its arms, bristled like a wild animal. In all the eyes lay the same hate, the same warlike defiance.
“What a sight you are to-day, Martin!” declared the stranger. “I thought to myself that you were one of them last night. I was right you see. They’ll come after you this afternoon. You’ll get at least two months in prison.”
Then the deluge descended upon them. The man and woman shrieked at each other. The girl came from behind the stove and joined them. No one could distinguish words they were so busy with hands and eyes. It seemed as if the little stuffy room must explode with the pressure of unchained passions.
Mrs. Warden turned pale and arose. The stranger opened the door and they went out. In the corridor she heard the frightful laughter of the woman. And the woman who laughed like that was the same woman
