Gertie and Lion were in the middle of their lessons, and the parrot, as usual, was behaving in a most reprehensible manner. English history it treated with absolute contempt, geography it whistled away to the winds, and the ridicule it cast upon the first principles of social morality was deserving of the most severe censure.

‘It is wicked to tell an untruth,’ said Miss Adrian.

Lion and Gertie quite agreed with Miss Adrian that it was; but the parrot said, ‘Humbug!’

‘And it’s wicked to use bad words, Miss Adrian, isn’t it?’ said Gertie, with a withering glance at the objectionable bird.

‘It is, dear,’ answered Miss Adrian, with a smile; ‘but Polly has picked up bad words from hearing other people use them, and this shows us that when we do and say wicked things, we are injuring others as well as ourselves.’

Gertie quite saw that. She felt that her grandfather was responsible to a great extent for the depraved condition of Polly’s mind.

‘Oh, Miss Adrian,’ she said, ‘if grandfather could only hear you and have a few lessons, I’m sure he would be good. I think he doesn’t know it’s wicked.’

Miss Adrian sighed. She was woman of the world enough to have gathered, from Gertie’s innocent confessions, what manner of man this old dog-fancier was. She had divined, far more than the child herself knew, and had long ago felt convinced that this little flower had been reared in a den of thieves.

For a weak woman like herself to attempt the regeneration of this burly reprobate she felt would be foolish, and could lead to no good result. The chances were that she would be forbidden the place, and then Gertie would be without a friend.

Her only hope was that in time Gertie might be able to have some influence herself, and might, in the hands of Providence, become a means of leading the old man into a different path.

Miss Adrian had passed from moral topics, and was hearing Gertie her spelling lesson. Gertie generally spelt the things they could see from the window and the animals in the room. It gave interest to a dry subject.

She had got beyond dogs, and cats, and rats, and animals of one syllable, and now she was in animals of two syllables.

‘Spell parrot,’ said Miss Adrian.

Polly hopped about and gave a shriek. It evidently knew it was going to be spelt, and objected strongly.

‘P-a-r,’ said Gertie.

‘Rot,’ shrieked the bird, and the vulgarism came so À propos that Miss Adrian looked at the bird half-fearfully. There was undoubtedly something uncanny about this diabolical parrot.

Just as there was a moment of dead silence after Polly’s disgraceful interruption, a footstep was heard on the stairs, and the next moment Polly burst out into a torrent of oaths.

Gertie, flushed scarlet with shame, and Miss Adrian changed colour.

The step had startled her, and she felt a sudden terror. It might be Heckett coming upstairs, and she felt that a trying interview was before her.

The parrot had recognized the step first. It was Heckett sure enough, but not Heckett alone. The old dog-fancier came marching into the room, followed by a gentleman Gertie had never seen before.

It was so unusual for her grandfather to come home before the afternoon when he went out, that until she saw his face Gertie hardly believed it could be he.

Her cheeks were still crimson with the blushes Polly had raised, but she had been reared in an atmosphere of deception, and quick as thought she picked up a canary-cage and began to extol the beauties of the occupant to Miss Adrian.

‘I think you’ll like this one, ma’am,’ she said. ‘It’s a capital singer.’ Then, turning to her grandfather, she said, innocently, ‘This lady wants a canary, grandfather; this is as good a one as we have, isn’t it?

‘Yes,’ growled the old man; ‘the gal knows her business, ma’am,’

He eyed Ruth as suspiciously as if she had been a female detective.

Ruth was looking over the canaries in the corner as Heckett and his companion entered, but when the old man spoke to her she turned round. Then, for the first time, the stranger and she stood face to face.

The gentleman was the first to speak.

‘Good heavens, Ruth, what brings you here? he cried, starting forward as though to take her hand, then stopping short and dropping his head.

‘Edward—I beg your pardon, Mr. Marston!’ stammered Ruth, blushing crimson and trembling violently. Gertie and her grandfather looked on in astonishment.

In a moment Miss Adrian had collected herself.

‘I will call again, my child, about the canary,’ she said to Gertie; then, lowering her veil, she bowed coldly to Marston and walked rapidly out of the room.

Marston watched her till the door had closed behind her. He seemed inclined to follow, but he only took a step forward, and then, with an oath, came back again and flung himself down on an empty box.

‘This is a rum go, governor,’ said Heckett, after a pause; what does it mean?

‘Do you know that lady?’ asked Marston, answering his question with another.

‘Never see her afore. Is she a reg’lar cus., Gertie, or only a chance?

‘She comes now and then,’ stammered Gertie, hardly knowing what to say.

Marston looked at the child, and then gave a glance at the door.

Heckett interpreted its meaning in a moment.

‘Gertie,’ he said, gruffly, ‘get out and have a blow. I shall be at home for an hour.’

Gertie put on her little hat and went out for a ‘blow,’ though what sort of a blow, except one on the head, is obtainable in Drury Lane it is difficult to conjecture.

She guessed her grandfather wanted to get rid of her while he talked to the gentleman, and so she took the hint at once.

‘Now then, governor,’ said Heckett, making himself comfortable on a rabbit-hutch, and kicking the foxhound and the spaniel out of the way, ‘perhaps you’ll give us the straight tip about this here affair. Who’s the donner?’

‘The lady,’ replied Marston, with a meaning emphasis on the word, ‘is a friend of mine; that’s enough for you. I knew her when I was a very different man to what I am now.’

‘I see—old pals—sweetheart, eh?’

‘Never you mind what we were,’ answered Marston, gruffly; ‘we didn’t come here to talk about sweethearts. What about this business?’

‘Well, if you think this is the best place to meet, I don’t mind. How many will there be on the job?’

‘The fewer the better,’ answered Marston; ‘but I don’t see we can do with less than five. There’ll be you and myself, Seth Preene, and Turvey the guard, and Brooks.’

‘How much will it be, do you think?’

‘About £20,000. We shall wait till it’s quite that. We must make a good haul, for the chance will never come again.’

‘It’s worth being in,’ growled Heckett, filling his pipe; ‘but it’s a blessed risky affair. What are the shares?’

‘Half me, and the rest between the four of you.’

‘That ain’t fair, I’m dashed if it is,’ said Heckett.

‘Yes, it is. I shall have to scheme the whole thing. You’ll only have to do the rough work. You needn’t be in it, though, if the terms don’t suit.’

‘That’s right, Edward Marston, Esq., turn up rusty with an old pal,’ growled Heckett.

‘I’m not rusty, Josh, but I risk more than all of you over this affair, and I’m the only man that can carry it out. Haven’t I found out where you were, and come to put a good thing in your way, just because you are an old pal? All the others have agreed to the terms, why should you grumble?’

‘I ain’t grumbling, bless you. I’ll take it. Give us your fist.’

Marston held out his hand, and Heckett gripped it.

‘Then, that’s settled,’ said Marston. ‘Directly the keys are ready we can arrange everything.’

‘By-the-bye,’ said Marston, as he was turning to go, ‘what about that girl? Where’s her mother? I suppose she’s Gertie’s child, isn’t she?’

‘Gertie’s dead!’ said the old man, quietly.

‘Gertie dead? I didn’t know that.’

‘She died directly after the Egerton affair—died here. Ah, I never could make it out,’ added Heckett, smoking his pipe fiercely.

‘But she wasn’t married, was she? We never knew that she was.’

‘I can’t tell you, Marston. I often thinks it over and wonders what the real truth of the affair was. Perhaps you might help me. You’re a scholard and pretty cute. You’ve read them ere stories in the ‘lustrated papers as gals read, ain’t you?’

‘I have read some of them years ago,’ answered Marston. ‘Well, the story of that child as you see here just now’s one on ‘em ready wrote. She’s my Gertie’s young un right enough, for she were born here. You knew my Gertie? She was as handsome a wench as you could see in a day’s march, and a reg’lar lady in her ways, warn’t she?’

‘She was,’ said Marston; ‘it was always a mystery how she could be your daughter.’

‘She took arter her mother,’ answered Heckett; ‘and Gertie, the child as you see, takes arter her. Well, you know as when I had the betting office in Soho, and young swells used to come, and we rigged up a roulette table in the back room? You remember them days?’

‘No one better, worse luck.’

‘You was one of the swells as come here, you and Birnie and Gurth Egerton and his cousin Ralph, and you all used to chaff my gal and pretend to make love to her, and all that sort of bosh.’

‘But she always kept us at a distance; she was as savage as a little tiger if any of us spoke too freely to her.’

‘I know it, and that’s why I trusted her among you, for you were as fast a lot of young rascals as could be found in London at that time, and there wasn’t one of you as had a mag to fly with, except what you got out of Ralph, for you was all dead broke.’

‘You knew it?’

‘Yes, I knew it, and I didn’t pertend to be a gentleman.

Everybody knew what I was; it was my business to live on greenhorns and fools. You was amatoors. You pertended to be gentlemen, and you brought a pal here and made him drunk night after night, and robbed him.’

‘You had your share.’

‘I don’t say I didn’t. Well, what happened? One night, at the old drum, there was a big row, the lights were knocked over, and in the darkness some one stabbed Ralph Egerton. Who, nobody knows, except the man as did it. He was taken away and he died at his own place soon after, and was buried, and nobody knew anything about it, thank God! but them as was mixed up in it.’

‘Birnie managed that affair deuced well,’ said Marston.

‘Yes, he did; and sometimes I think as he had a reason for taking so much trouble. But that ain’t here nor there. He seed everything right and proper, and kept us all out of an awkward row. Ralph’s dead and buried, and Gurth had all his money, and a pretty pot of it there was, though you had all been robbing him and living on him for months. Ralph’s will left him everything, though it was rum it should, for they was never very great friends, was they?’

‘No,’ said Marston. ‘Go on.’

Marston was interested. Heckett’s words had set him thinking. He was beginning to have a faint clue to something which had always been a mystery to him.

‘Well, the next morning I was in the room trying to tidy up a bit and get things straight, when in comes Gertie, my gal. She looked ill and worried. It was early, and I didn’t think she’d be down—she slept in the upstairs room—or I should have locked the door.

‘“Father,” she sez, “was there a row last night?”

‘“Not partic’lar, my gal,” I sez, a-tryin’ to chuck the cloth over something on the floor.

‘“I thought I heard quarrelling and blows,” she sez. “I hope you didn’t let them blackguards rob Mr. Egerton again last night?”

‘“I can’t help what the fools as comes here does,” I sez. “This here ain’t a Sunday school, my gal, where they comes to sing hymns and say their catechiz.”

‘“I know that, wus luck,” she sez, a lookin’ at me straight in the face. “This here’s a den o’ thieves, father—that’s what it is; and it’s people like us as brings murder about.”

‘I didn’t feel comfortable when she began to talk like that, so I sez to her:

‘“You go and get the brekfus ready, my gal, that’s what you’ve got to do.”

‘“I shan’t,” she sez. “Look here, father,”—Lor’, I can see her a-standing there now, poor dear, her eyes a-flashin’ and her bussim heavin’ with passion—“you shan’t lead this horrible life no longer,” she sez. “I’m sick on it. I’ll warn Ralph Egerton this very day. He don’t come here no more.”

‘“You’re a saucy jade,” I sez; “you go and mind your own business.”

‘’With that, being confused like, I picks up the cloth, and the next minute she had me by the arm a-grippin’ me till I hollared out.

‘“Father,” she sez, “what’s that? There’s blood upon the floor. Father, there’s murder been done here this night.”

‘With that she drops into a chair and begins to moan and rock herself to and fro, and presently she has what they calls a fit of the ‘sterics, for she begins to larf and cry and shout out. Then she rushes out of the room quite mad like, a-yellin’ “Murder.” Well, I got in a funk then, for I see as it would be all up if she didn’t hold her row, so I bolts after her and seizes her.

‘“Leave go!” she shrieks. “Murder! Help! Murder!”

‘“Quiet, you devil!” I shouted, gripping her by the throat, for I was half mad myself then. “Do you want to hang the lot of us?”’

‘She fought and bit and struggled, and, strong as I am, I had all my work to hold her. At last she broke loose, and made for the stairs, and then——’

The old dog-fancier drew out a big red handkerchief and mopped his brow, for the perspiration stood upon it in great beads.

‘And then—God forgive me!—mad with rage, I struck her a violent blow on the head, and she fell to the ground.

‘I was sorry arter, and I’d a cut my ‘and off, but what was I to do? She’d ha’ had the whole neighbourhood about our ears in another minute.

‘She lay quite still where she fell, a-moaning and a-groaning, and I kneels down beside her, and I calls her by name, and asks her to get up, and tells her as I didn’t mean to do it, for, so help me God, Marston, that there gal was the only human thing as I ever cared for. She never got up, so I lifted her and carried her up, and put her on the bed upstairs.

‘She lay there day after day, eatin’ a bit now and then, and a-moaning and a-talking out loud about things as had happened years ago, and I see as her brain was gorn queer. I daredn’t leave her a minnit hardly, so I shuts the place for a bit. Birnie come to see her, for I sent a message to him. He told me he’d a come before only he had to see to Ralph Egerton. Then he told me what he’d done, and how it was all square, and nobody need never be the wiser. Gurth Egerton he come to ask after her, and he seemed quite interested in how she was a-goin’ on and asked me what she talked about, and all manner o’ rum questions.

‘Well, she lied like that for a couple o’ months, and Birnie told me as she was quite out of her mind, and certainly she did talk that wild it was enough to give you the shivers to hear her.

‘“Is there any cause for this here?” I sez to Birnie, for I didn’t think as the crack on the head could have done it.

‘“Yes,” he says; “she’s evidently been in great trouble, and that little affair in the back room settled her outright,” and then he tells me something as regular takes my breath away.

‘I didn’t believe it at first, but I found he was right arter all; for one night I had to send for him in a hurry, and the next morning my poor girl was dead, and that young un as you see in the room jest now was a-crying by the side of her.’

‘And you mean to say you have no idea who Gertie’s father was?’

‘Not the ghost o’ one. She raved about everything except that. The murder was the principal thing she stuck to. “They’re murdering Ralph!” she’d cry out; “Save yourself, Ralph!” but never a word about a sweetheart, and she died without telling us; and from that day to this I’ve never found out who it was as ruined my poor gal like a villain.’

The frame of the burly old ruffian shook as he brought his fist down on a box by his side.

‘By G——!’ he said, ‘if I could find that out, I swing for him now.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ said Marston quietly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your story’s new to me, Josh,’ said Marston, quietly, ‘and I didn’t know poor Gertie was dead, for I left England soon after that affair, as you know.’

‘Yes, you left in a hurry, though nobody ever knew why.’

‘That was my business,’ answered Marston, with the air of a man who declined to be questioned; ‘but I left in total ignorance of anything but the attack on Ralph.’

‘Some of us thought that was why you did leave.’

‘I had nothing to do with it,’ said Marston; ‘but I can tell you what you evidently don’t know—your daughter had a sweetheart. One of the men who came here came only to see her. He met her here first, and afterwards they used to go about together in the day-time. One of the men who used your house night after night was Gertie’s lover.’

‘Tell me his name,’ cried Heckett, springing to his feet, with a face livid with rage. ‘Tell me his name, and by Heaven I’ll kill him like a dog.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Marston. ‘Sit down.’ He pushed the old man back on to the box. ‘Now listen. The man who loved your girl, who met her day after day, and who only came to your den of thieves for her sake, was——’ Marston paused.

‘Quick!’ gasped Heckett; ‘tell it me quick! His name—his name?’

‘Ralph Egerton!’ said Marston.

The old man’s clenched fist dropped to his side.

At that moment Gertie came in from her walk, Heckett called her to him and looked earnestly in her face.

‘By Jove, Marston!’ he exclaimed, ‘I believe you’re right.’