"The good Herr Gott has
forbidden theft and Rosa says the boy was stolen. Also the
druggist has gone to visit his wife's mother."
"Perhaps I may be of service; I shall go up."
"And see for a moment that hussy of the streets! Remain here. I
shall go."
Slowly and ponderously she climbed the stairs.
Stewart, left alone, wandered along the dim corridor. He found
Peter's excitement rather amusing. So this was where Peter lived,
an old house, isolated in a garden where rambled young women with
soft voices. Hello, a youngster asleep! The boy, no doubt.
He wandered on toward the lighted door of the salon and Marie.
The place was warm and comfortable, but over it all hung the
indescribable odor of drugs that meant illness. He remembered
that the boy was frail.
Marie turned as he stopped in the salon doorway, and then rose,
white-faced. Across the wide spaces of the room they eyed each
other. Marie's crisis had come. Like all crises it was bigger
than speech. It was after a distinct pause that she spoke.
"Hast thou brought the police?"
Curiously human, curiously masculine at least was Stewart's
mental condition at that moment. He had never loved the girl; it
was with tremendous relief he had put her out of his life. And
yet--
"So it's old Peter now, is it?"
"No, no, not that, Walter. He has given me shelter, that is all.
I swear it. I look after the boy."
"Who else is here?"
"No one else; but--"
"Tell that rot to some one who does not know you.
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