第一部 命运之钥 第一章_荆棘之城

This is the first time I remember thinking about the world and my place in it. There was a girl named Flora, who paid Mrs Sucksby a penny to take me begging at a play. People used to like to take me begging then, for the sake of my bright hair; and Flora being also very fair, she would pass me off as her sister. The theatre she took me to, on the night I am thinking of now, was the Surrey, St George's Circus. The play was Oliver Twist. I remember it as very terrible. I remember the tilt of the gallery, and the drop to the pit. I remember a drunken woman catching at the ribbons of my dress. I remember the flares, that made the stage very lurid; and the roaring of the actors, the shrieking of the crowd. They had one of the characters in a red wig and whiskers: I was certain he was a monkey in a coat, he capered so. Worse still was the snarling, pink-eyed dog; worst of all was that dog's master -- Bill Sykes, the fancy-man. When he struck the poor girl Nancy with his club, the people all down our row got up. There was a boot thrown at the stage. A woman beside me cried out, "Oh, you beast! You villain! And her worth forty of a bully like you!"

I don't know if it was the people getting up -- which made the gallery seem to heave about; or the shrieking woman; or the sight of Nancy, lying perfectly pale and still at Bill Sykes's feet; but I became gripped by an awful terror. I thought we should all be killed. I began to scream, and Flora could not quiet me. And when the woman who had called out put her arms to me and smiled, I screamed out louder. Then Flora began to weep -- she was only twelve or thirteen, I suppose. She took me home, and Mrs Sucksby slapped her.

"What was you thinking of, taking her to such a thing?" she said. "You was to sit with her upon the steps. I don't hire my infants out to have them brought back like this, turned blue with screaming. What was you playing at?"

She took me upon her lap, and I wept again. "There now, my lamb," she said. Flora stood before her, saying nothing, pulling a strand of hair across her scarlet cheek. Mrs Sucksby was a devil with her dander up. She looked at Flora and tapped her slippered foot upon the rug, all the time rocking in her chair -- that was a great creaking wooden chair, that no-one sat in save her -- and beating her thick, hard hand upon my shaking back. Then,

"I know your little rig," she said quietly. She knew everybody's rig. "What you get? A couple of wipers, was it? A couple of wipers, and a lady's purse?"

Flora pulled the strand of hair to her mouth, and bit it. "A purse," she said, after a second. "And a bottle of scent."

"Show," said Mrs Sucksby, holding out her hand.

Flora's face grew darker. But she put her fingers to a tear at the waist of her skirt, and reached inside it; and you might imagine my surprise when the tear turned out to be not a tear at all, but the neck of a little silk pocket that was sewn inside her gown. She brought out a black cloth bag, and a bottle with a stopper on a silver chain. The bag had threepence in it, and half a nutmeg. Perhaps she got it from the drunken woman who plucked at my dress. The bottle, with its stopper off, smelt of roses. Mrs Sucksby sniffed.

"Pretty poor poke," she said, "ain't it?"

Flora tossed her head. "I should have had more," she said, with a look at me, "if she hadn't started up with the sterics."

Mrs Sucksby leaned and hit her again.

"If I had known what you was about," she said, "you shouldn't have had none of it at all. Let me tell you this now: you want an infant for prigging with, you take one of my other babies. You don't take Sue. Do you hear me?"

Flora sulked, but said she did. Mrs Sucksby said, "Good. Now hook it. And leave that poke behind you, else I shall tell your mother you've been going with gentlemen."

Then she took me to her bed -- first, rubbing at the sheets with her hands, to warm them; then stooping to breathe upon my fingers, to warm me. I was the only one, of all her infants, she would do that for. She said, "You ain't afraid now, Sue?"

But I was, and said so. I said I was afraid the fancy-man would find me out and hit me with his stick. She said she had heard of that particular fancy-man: he was all bounce. She said, "It was Bill Sykes, wasn't it? Why, he's a Clerkenwell man. He don't trouble with the Borough. The Borough boys are too hard for him."

I said, "But, oh, Mrs Sucksby! You never saw the poor girl Nancy, and how he knocked her down and murdered her!"

"Murdered her?" she said then. "Nancy? Why, I had her here an hour ago. She was only beat a bit about the face. She has her hair curled different now, you wouldn't know he ever laid his hand upon her."

I said, "Won't he beat her again, though?"

She told me then that Nancy had come to her senses at last, and left Bill Sykes entirely; that she had met a nice chap from Wapping, who had set her up in a little shop selling sugar mice and tobacco.

She lifted my hair from about my neck and smoothed it across the pillow. My hair, as I have said, was very fair then -- though it grew plain brown, as I got older -- and Mrs Sucksby used to wash it with vinegar and comb it till it sparked. Now she smoothed it flat, then lifted a tress of it and touched it to her lips. She said, That Flora tries to take you on the prig again, you tell me -- will you?"

I said I would. "Good girl," she said. Then she went. She took her candle with her, but the door she left half-open, and the cloth at the window was of lace and let the street-lamps show. It was never quite dark there, and never quite still. On the floor above were a couple of rooms where girls and boys would now and then come to stay: they laughed and thumped about, dropped coins, and sometimes danced. Beyond the wall lay Mr Ibbs's sister, who was kept to her bed: she often woke with the horrors on her, shrieking. And all about the house -- laid top-to-toe in cradles, like sprats in boxes of salt -- were Mrs Sucksby's infants. They might start up whimpering or weeping any hour of the night, any little thing might set them off. Then Mrs Sucksby would go among them, dosing them from a bottle of gin, with a little silver spoon you could hear chink against the glass.

On this night, though, I think the rooms upstairs must have been empty, and Mr Ibbs's sister stayed quiet; and perhaps because of the quiet, the babies kept asleep. Being used to the noise, I lay awake. I lay and thought again of cruel Bill Sykes; and of Nancy, dead at his feet. From some house nearby there sounded a man's voice, cursing. Then a church bell struck the hour -- the chimes came queerly across the windy streets. I wondered if Flora's slapped cheek still hurt her. I wondered how near to the Borough was Clerkenwell; and how quick the way would seem, to a man with a stick.

I had a warm imagination, even then. When there came footsteps in Lant Street, that stopped outside the window; and when the footsteps were followed by the whining of a dog, the scratching of the dog's claws, the careful turning of the handle of our shop door, I started up off my pillow and might have screamed -- except that before I could the dog gave a bark, and the bark had a catch to it, that I thought I knew: it was not the pink-eyed monster from the theatre, but our own dog, Jack. He could fight like a brick. Then there came a whistle. Bill Sykes never whistled so sweet. The lips were Mr Ibbs's. He had been out for a hot meat pudding for his and Mrs Sucksby's supper.

"All right?" I heard him say. "Smell the gravy on this…"

Then his voice became a murmur, and I fell back. I should say I was five or six years old. I remember it clear as anything, though. I remember lying, and hearing the sound of knives and forks and china, Mrs Sucksby's sighs, the creaking of her chair, the beat of her slipper on the floor. And I remember seeing -- what I had never seen before -- how the world was made up: that it had bad Bill Sykeses in it, and good Mr Ibbses; and Nancys, that might go either way. I thought how glad I was that I was already on the side that Nancy got to at last. -- I mean, the good side, with sugar mice in.

It was only many years later, when I saw Oliver Twist a second time, that I understood that Nancy of course got murdered after all. By then, Flora was quite the fingersmith: the Surrey was nothing to her, she was working the West End theatres and halls -- she could go through the crowds like salts. She never took me with her again, though. She was like everyone, too scared of Mrs Sucksby. She was caught at last, poor thing, with her hands on a lady's bracelet; and was sent for transportation as a thief.

We were all more or less thieves, at Lant Street. But we were that kind of thief that rather eased the dodgy deed along, than did it. If I had stared to see Flora put her hand to a tear in her skirt and bring out a purse and perfume, I was never so surprised again: for it was a very dull day with us, when no-one came to Mr Ibbs's shop with a bag or a packet in the lining of his coat, in his hat, in his sleeve or stocking.

"All right, Mr Ibbs?" he'd say.

"All right, my son," Mr Ibbs would answer. He talked rather through his nose, like that. "What you know?"

"Not much."

"Got something for me?"

The man would wink. "Got something, Mr Ibbs, very hot and uncommon…"

They always said that, or something like it. Mr Ibbs would nod, then pull the blind upon the shop-door and turn the key -- for he was a cautious man, and never saw poke near a window. At the back of his counter was a green baize curtain, and behind that was a passage, leading straight to our kitchen. If the thief was one he knew he would bring him to the table. "Come on, my son," he would say. "I don't do this for everyone. But you are such an old hand that -- well, you might be family." And he would have the man lay out his stuff between the cups and crusts and tea-spoons.

Mrs Sucksby might be there, feeding pap to a baby. The thief would see her and take off his hat.

"All right, Mrs Sucksby?"

"All right, my dear."

"All right, Sue? Ain't you growed!"

I thought them better than magicians. For out from their coats and sleeves would come pocket-books, silk handkerchiefs and watches; or else jewellery, silver plate, brass candlesticks, petticoats -- whole suits of clothes, sometimes.

"This is quality stuff, this is," they would say, as they set it all out; and Mr Ibbs would rub his hands and look expectant. But then he would study their poke, and his face would fall. He was a very mild-looking man, very honest-seeming -- very pale in the cheek, with neat lips and whiskers. His face would fall, it would just about break your heart.

"Rag," he might say, shaking his head, fingering a piece of paper money. "Very hard to push along." Or, "Candlesticks. I had a dozen top-quality candlesticks come just last week, from a crib at Whitehall. Couldn't do nothing with them. Couldn't give them away."

He would stand, making a show of reckoning up a price, but looking like he hardly dare name it to the man for fear of insulting him. Then he'd make his offer, and the thief would look disgusted.

"Mr Ibbs," he would say, "that won't pay me for the trouble of walking from London Bridge. Be fair, now."

But by then Mr Ibbs would have gone to his box and be counting out shillings on the table: one, two, three -- He might pause, with the fourth in his hand. The thief would see the shine of the silver -- Mr Ibbs always kept his coins rubbed very bright, for just that reason -- and it was like hares to a greyhound.

"Couldn't you make it five, Mr Ibbs?"

Mr Ibbs would lift his honest face, and shrug. "I should like to, my son. I should like nothing better. And if you was to bring me something out of the way, I would make my money answer. This, however" -- with a wave of his hand above the pile of silks or notes or gleaming brass -- "this is so much gingerbread. I should be robbing myself. I should be stealing the food from the mouths of Mrs Sucksby's babies."

And he would hand the thief his shillings, and the thief would pocket them and button his jacket, and cough or wipe his nose.

And then Mr Ibbs would seem to have a change of heart. He would step to his box again and, "You eaten anything this morning, my son?" he would say.

The thief would always answer, "Not a crust."

Then Mr Ibbs would give him sixpence, and tell him to be sure and spend it on a breakfast and not on a horse; and the thief would say something like, "You're a jewel, Mr Ibbs, a regular jewel."

Mr Ibbs might make ten or twelve shillings' profit with a man like that: all through seeming to be honest, and fair. For, of course, what he had said about the rag or the candlesticks would be so much puff: he knew brass from onions, all right. When the thief had gone, he'd catch my eye and wink. He'd rub his hands again and grow quite lively.

"Now, Sue," he'd say, "what would you say to taking a cloth to these, and bringing up the shine? And then you might -- if you've a moment, dear, if Mrs Sucksby don't need you -- you might have a little go at the fancy work upon these wipers. Only a very little, gentle sort of go, with your little scissors and perhaps a pin: for this is lawn -- do you see, my dear? -- and will tear, if you tug too hard…"

I believe I learned my alphabet, like that: not by putting letters down, but by taking them out. I know I learned the look of my own name, from handkerchiefs that came, marked Susan. As for regular reading, we never troubled with it. Mrs Sucksby could do it, if she had to; Mr Ibbs could read, and even write; but, for the rest of us, it was an idea -- well, I should say, like speaking Hebrew or throwing somersaults: you could see the use of it, for Jews and tumblers; but while it was their lay, why make it yours?

So I thought then, anyway. I learned to cipher, though. I learned it, from handling coins. Good coins we kept, of course. Bad ones come up too bright, and must be slummed, with blacking and grease, before you pass them on. I learned that, too. Silks and linens there are ways of washing and pressing, to make them seem new. Gems I would shine, with ordinary vinegar. Silver plate we ate our suppers off -- but only the once, because of the crests and stampings; and when we had finished, Mr Ibbs would take the cups and bowls and melt them into bars. He did the same with gold and pewter. He never took chances: that's what made him so good. Everything that came into our kitchen looking like one sort of thing, was made to leave it again looking quite another. And though it had come in the front way -- the shop way, the Lant Street way -- it left by another way, too. It left by the back. There was no street there. What there was, was a little covered passage and a small dark court. You might stand in that and think yourself baffled; there was a path, however, if you knew how to look. It took you to an alley, and that met a winding black lane, which ran to the arches of the railway line; and from one of those arches -- I won't say quite which, though I could -- led another, darker, lane that would take you, very quick and inconspicuous, to the river. We knew two or three men who kept boats there. All along that crooked way, indeed, lived pals of ours -- Mr Ibbs's nephews, say, that I called cousins. We could send poke from our kitchen, through any of them, to all the parts of London. We could pass anything, anything at all, at speeds which would astonish you. We could pass ice, in August, before a quarter of the block should have had a chance to turn to water. We could pass sunshine in summer -- Mr Ibbs would find a buyer for it.

In short, there was not much that was brought to our house that was not moved out of it again, rather sharpish. There was only one thing, in fact, that had come and got stuck -- one thing that had somehow withstood the tremendous pull of that passage of poke -- one thing that Mr Ibbs and Mrs Sucksby seemed never to think to put a price to.

I mean of course, Me.

I had my mother to thank for that. Her story was a tragic one. She had come to Lant Street on a certain night in 1844. She had come, "very large, dear girl, with you," Mrs Sucksby said -- by which, until I learned better, I took her to mean that my mother had brought me, perhaps tucked in a pocket behind her skirt, or sewn into the lining of her coat. For I knew she was a thief.-- "What a thief!" Mrs Sucksby would say. "So bold! And handsome?"

"Was she, Mrs Sucksby? Was she fair?"

"Fairer than you; but sharp, like you, about the face; and thin as paper. We put her upstairs. No-one knew she was here, save me and Mr Ibbs -- for she was wanted, she said, by the police of four divisions, and if they had got her, she'd swing. What was her lay? She said it was only prigging. I think it must have been worse. I know she was hard as a nut, for she had you and, I swear, she never murmured -- never called out once. She only looked at you, and put a kiss on your little head; then she gave me six pounds for the keeping of you -- all of it in sovereigns, and all of 'em good. She said she had one last job to do, that would make her fortune. She meant to come back for you, when her way was clear…"

So Mrs Sucksby told it; and every time, though her voice would start off steady it would end up trembling, and her eyes would fill with tears. For she had waited for my mother, and my mother had not come. What came, instead, was awful news. The job that was meant to make her fortune, had gone badly. A man had been killed trying to save his plate. It was my mother's knife that killed him. Her own pal peached on her. The police caught up with her at last. She was a month in prison. Then they hanged her.

They hanged her, as they did murderesses then, on the roof of the Horsemonger Lane Gaol. Mrs Sucksby stood and watched the drop, from the window of the room that I was born in.

You got a marvellous view of it from there -- the best view in South London, everybody said. People were prepared to pay very handsomely for a spot at that window, on hanging days. And though some girls shrieked when the trap went rattling down, I never did. I never once shuddered or winked.

"That's Susan Trinder," someone might whisper then. "Her mother was hanged as a murderess. Ain't she brave?"

I liked to hear them say it. Who wouldn't? But the fact is -- and I don't care who knows it, now -- the fact is, I was not brave at all. For to be brave about a thing like that, you must first be sorry. And how could I be sorry, for someone I never knew? I supposed it was a pity my mother had ended up hanged; but, since she was hanged, I was glad it was for something game, like murdering a miser over his plate, and not for something very wicked, like throttling a child. I supposed it was a pity she had made an orphan of me -- but then, some girls I knew had mothers who were drunkards, or mothers who were mad: mothers they hated and could never rub along with. I should rather a dead mother, over one like that!

I should rather Mrs Sucksby. She was better by chalks. She had been paid to keep me a month; she kept me seventeen years. What's love, if that ain't? She might have passed me on to the poorhouse. She might have left me crying in a draughty crib. Instead she prized me so, she would not let me on the prig for fear a policeman should have got me. She let me sleep beside her, in her own bed. She shined my hair with vinegar. You treat jewels like that. And I was not a jewel; nor even a pearl. My hair, after all, turned out quite ordinary. My face was a commonplace face. I could pick a plain lock, I could cut a plain key; I could bounce a coin and say, from the ring, if the coin were good or bad. -- But anyone can do those things, who is taught them. All about me other infants came, and stayed a little, then were claimed by their mothers, or found new mothers, or perished; and of course, no-one claimed me, I did not perish, instead I grew up, until at last I was old enough to go among the cradles with the bottle of gin and the silver spoon myself. Mr Ibbs I would seem sometimes to catch gazing at me with a certain light in his eye -- as if, I thought, he was seeing me suddenly for the piece of poke I was, and wondering how I had come to stay so long, and who he could pass me on to. But when people talked -- as they now and then did -- about blood, and its being thicker than water, Mrs Sucksby looked dark.

"Come here, dear girl," she'd say. "Let me look at you." And she'd put her hands upon my head and stroke my cheeks with her thumbs, brooding over my face. "I see her in you," she'd say. "She is looking at me, as she looked at me that night. She is thinking that she'll come back and make your fortune. How could she know? Poor girl, she'll never come back! Your fortune's still to be made. Your fortune, Sue, and ours along with it…"

So she said, many times. Whenever she grumbled or sighed -- whenever she rose from a cradle, rubbing her sore back -- her eyes would find me out, and her look would clear, she'd grow contented.

But here is Sue, she might as well have said. Things is hard for us, now. But here is Sue. She'll fix 'em…

I let her think it; but thought I knew better. I'd heard once that she'd had a child of her own, many years before, that had been born dead. I thought it was her face she supposed she saw, when she gazed so hard at mine. The idea made me shiver, rather; for it was queer to think of being loved, not just for my own sake, but for someone's I never knew…

I thought I knew all about love, in those days. I thought I knew all about everything. If you had asked me how I supposed I should go on, I dare say I would have said that I should like to farm infants. I might like to be married, to a thief or a fencing-man. There was a boy, when I was fifteen, that stole a clasp for me, and said he should like to kiss me. There was another a little later, who used to stand at our back door and whistle "The Locksmith's Daughter", expressly to see me blush. Mrs Sucksby chased them both away. She was as careful of me in that department, as in all others.

"Who's she keeping you for, then?" the boys would say. "Prince Eddie?" I think the people who came to Lant Street thought me slow. -- Slow I mean, as opposed to fast. Perhaps I was, by Borough standards. But it seemed to me that I was sharp enough. You could not have grown up in such a house, that had such businesses in it, without having a pretty good idea of what was what -- of what could go into what; and what could come out.

Do you follow?

You are waiting for me to start my story. Perhaps I was waiting, then. But my story had already started -- I was only like you, and didn't know it.

This is when I thought it really began.

A night in winter, a few weeks after the Christmas that marked my seventeenth birthday. A dark night -- a hard night, full of a fog that was more or less a rain, and a rain that was more or less snow. Dark nights are good to thieves and fencing-men; dark nights in winter are the best nights of all, for then regular people keep close to their homes, and the swells all keep to the country, and the grand houses of London are shut up and empty and pleading to be cracked. We got lots of stuff on nights like those, and Mr Ibbs's profits were higher than ever. The cold makes thieves come to a bargain very quick.

We did not feel the cold too much at Lant Street, for besides our ordinary kitchen fire there was Mr Ibbs's locksmith's brazier: he always kept a flame beneath the coals of it, you could never say what might not turn up that would need making up or melting down. On this night there were three or four boys at it, sweating the gold off sovereigns. Besides them was Mrs Sucksby in her great chair, a couple of babies in a cradle at her side; and a boy and a girl who were rooming with us then -- John Vroom, and Dainty Warren.

John was a thin, dark, knifish boy of about fourteen. He was always eating. I believe he had the worm. This night he was cracking peanuts, and throwing their shells on the floor.

Mrs Sucksby saw him do it. "Will you watch your manners?" she said. "You make a mess, and Sue shall have to tidy it."

John said, "Poor Sue, ain't my heart bleeding."

He never cared for me. I think he was jealous. He had come to our house as a baby, like me; and like mine, his mother had died and made an orphan of him. But he was such a queer-looking child, no-one would take him off Mrs Sucksby's hands. She had kept him till he was four or five, then put him on the parish -- even then, however, he was a devil to get rid of, always running back from the workhouse: we were forever opening the shop-door and finding him sleeping on the step. She had got the master of a ship to take him at last, and he sailed as far as China; when he came back to the Borough after that, he did it with money, to brag. The money had lasted a month. Now he kept handy at Lant Street by doing jobs for Mr Ibbs; and besides them, ran mean little dodges of his own, with Dainty to help him.

She was a great red-haired girl of three-and-twenty, and more or less a simpleton. She had neat white hands, though, and could sew like anything. John had her at this time stitching dog-skins onto stolen dogs, to make them seem handsomer breeds than what they really were.

He was doing a deal with a dog-thief. This man had a couple of bitches: when the bitches came on heat he would walk the streets with them, tempting dogs away from their owners, then charging a ten pounds' ransom before he'd give them back. That works best with sporting dogs, and dogs with sentimental mistresses; some owners, however, will never pay up -- you could cut off their little dog's tail and post it to them and never see a bean, they are that heartless -- and the dogs that John's pal was landed with he would throttle, then sell to him at a knocked-down price. I can't say what John did with the meat -- passed it off as rabbit, perhaps, or ate it himself. But the skins, as I have said, he had Dainty stitching to plain street-dogs, which he was selling as quality breeds at the Whitechapel Market.

The bits of fur left over she was sewing together to cover him a greatcoat. She was sewing it, this night. She had the collar done and the shoulders and half the sleeves, and there were about forty different sorts of dog in it already. The smell of it was powerful, before a fire, and drove our own dog -- which was not the old fighter, Jack, but another, brown dog we called Charley Wag, after the thief in the story -- into a perfect fever.

Now and then Dainty would hold the coat up for us all to see how well it looked.

"It's a good job for Dainty that you ain't a deal taller, John," I said, one time she did this.

"It's a good job for you that you ain't dead," he answered. He was short, and felt it. "Though a shame for the rest of us. I should like a bit of your skin upon the sleeves of my coat -- perhaps upon the cuffs of it, where I wipes my nose. You should look right at home, beside a bulldog or a boxer."

He took up his knife, that he always kept by him, and tested the edge with his thumb. "I ain't quite decided yet," he said, "but what I shan't come one night, and take a bit of skin off while you are sleeping. What should you say, Dainty, if I was to make you sew up that?"

Dainty put her hand to her mouth and screamed. She wore a ring, too large for her hand; she had wound a bit of thread about the finger beneath, and the thread was quite black.

"You tickler!" she said.

John smiled, and tapped with the point of his knife against a broken tooth. Mrs Sucksby said, "That's enough from you, or I'll knock your bloody head off. I won't have Sue made nervous."

I said at once, that if I thought I should be made nervous by an infant like John Vroom, I should cut my throat. John said he should like to cut it for me. Then Mrs Sucksby leaned from her chair and hit him -- just as she had once leaned, on that other night, all that time before, and hit poor Flora; and as she had leaned and hit others, in the years in between -- all for my sake.

John looked for a second as if he should like to strike her back; then he looked at me, as if he should like to strike me harder. Then Dainty shifted in her seat, and he turned and struck her.

"Beats me," he said when he had done it, "why everyone is so down on me."

Dainty had started to cry. She reached for his sleeve. "Never mind their hard words, Johnny," she said. "I sticks to you, don't I?"

"You sticks, all right," he answered. "Like shit to a shovel." He pushed her hand away, and she sat rocking in her chair, huddled over the dog-skin coat and weeping into her stitches.

"Hush now, Dainty," said Mrs Sucksby. "You are spoiling your nice work."

She cried for a minute. Then one of the boys at the brazier burned his finger on a hot coin, and started off swearing; and she screamed with laughter. John put another peanut to his mouth and spat the shell upon the floor.

Then we sat quiet, for perhaps a quarter of an hour. Charley Wag lay before the fire and twitched, chasing hansoms in his sleep -- his tail was kinked where a cab-wheel had caught it. I got out cards, for a game of Patience. Dainty sewed. Mrs Sucksby dozed. John sat perfectly idle; but would now and then look over at the cards I dealt, to tell me where to place them.

"Jack of Diggers on the Bitch of Hearts," he would say. Or, "Lor! Ain't you slow?"

"Ain't you hateful?" I would answer, keeping on with my own game. The pack was an old one, the cards as limp as rags. A man had been killed once, in a fight over a crooked game that was played with those cards. I set them out a final time and turned my chair a little, so that John might not see how they fell. And then, all at once, one of the babies started out of its slumber and began to cry, and Charley Wag woke up and gave a bark. There was a sudden gust of wind that made the fire leap high in the chimney, and the rain came harder upon the coals and made them hiss. Mrs Sucksby opened her eyes. "What's that?" she said.

"What's what?" said John.

Then we heard it: a thump, in the passage that led to the back of the house. Then another thump came. Then the thumps became footsteps. The footsteps stopped at the kitchen door -- there was a second of silence -- and then, slow and heavy, a knock.

Knock -- knock -- knock. Like that. Like the knocking on a door in a play, when the dead man's ghost comes back. Not a thief's knock, anyway: that is quick and light. You knew what sort of business it was, when you heard that. This business, however, might be anything, anything at all. This business might be bad.

So we all thought. We looked at one another, and Mrs Sucksby reached into the cradle to draw the baby from it and stop its cries against her bosom; and John took hold of Charley Wag and held his jaws shut. The boys at the brazier fell silent as mice. Mr Ibbs said quietly, "Anyone expected? Boys, put this lot away. Never mind your burning fingers. If it's the blues, we're done for."

They began picking at the sovereigns and the gold they had sweated from them, wrapping them in handkerchiefs, putting the handkerchiefs beneath their hats or in their trouser pockets. One of them -- it was Mr Ibbs's oldest nephew, Phil -- went quickly to the door and stood beside it, his back flat to the wall, his hand in his coat. He had passed two terms in prison, and always swore he would not pass a third.

The knock came again. Mr Ibbs said, "All tidy? Now, be steady, boys, be steady. What do you say, Sue my dear, to opening that door?"

I looked again at Mrs Sucksby, and when she nodded, went and drew back the bolt; the door was flung so quick and hard against me, Phil thought it had been shouldered -- I saw him brace himself against the wall, bring out his knife and lift it. But it was only the wind that made the door swing: it came in a rush into the kitchen, blowing half the candles out, making the brazier spark, and sending all my playing-cards flying. In the passage stood a man, dressed dark, wet through and dripping, and with a leather bag at his feet. The dim light showed his pale cheeks, his whiskers, but his eyes were quite hidden in the shadow of his hat. I should not have known him if he had not spoken. He said, "Sue! Is it Sue? Thank God! I have come forty miles to see you. Will you keep me standing here? I am afraid the cold will kill me!"

Then I knew him, though I had not seen him for more than a year. Not one man in a hundred came to Lant Street speaking like him. His name was Richard Rivers, or Dick Rivers, or sometimes Richard Wells. We called him by another name, however; and it was that name I said now, when Mrs Sucksby saw me staring and called,"Who is it, then?"

"It's Gentleman," I said.

That is how we said it, of course: not how a proper gent would say it, using all his teeth on it; but as if the word were a fish and we had filleted it -- Ge'mun.

"It's Gentleman," I said; and Phil at once put his knife away, and spat, and went back to the brazier. Mrs Sucksby, however, turned in her chair, the baby twisting its scarlet face from her bosom and opening its mouth.

"Gentleman!" she cried. The baby started shrieking, and Charley Wag, let free by John, dashed barking to Gentleman and put his paws upon his coat. "What a turn you gave us! Dainty, take a taper to them candles. Put the water on the fire, for a pot."

"We thought you was the blues," I said, as Gentleman came into the kitchen.

"I believe I am turned blue," he answered. He set down his bag, and shivered, and took off his sodden hat and gloves and then his dripping greatcoat, which at once began to steam. He rubbed his hands together, then passed them over his head. He kept his hair and whiskers long and now, the rain having taken the kink from them, they seemed longer than ever, and dark, and sleek. There were rings at his fingers, and a watch, with a jewel on the chain, at his waistcoat. I knew without studying them that the rings and the watch were snide, and the jewel a paste one; but they were damn fine counterfeits.

The room grew brighter as Dainty saw to the lights. Gentleman looked about him, still rubbing his hands together and nodding.

"How do you do, Mr Ibbs?" he called easily. "How do you do, lads?"

Mr Ibbs said, "Very well, my tulip." The boys did not answer. Phil said, to noone, "Come in the back way, did he?" -- and another boy laughed. Boys like that always think that men like Gentleman are nancies.

John laughed too, but louder than the others. Gentleman looked at him. "Hallo, you little tick," he said. "Lost your monkey?"

John's cheek being so sallow, everyone always took him for an Italian. Now, hearing Gentleman, he put his finger to his nose. "You can kiss my arse," he said.

"Can I?" said Gentleman, smiling. He winked at Dainty, and she ducked her head. "Hallo, charmer," he said. Then he stooped to Charley Wag, and pulled his ears. "Hallo, you Wagster. Where's police? Hey? Where's police? See 'em off!" Charley Wag went wild. "Good boy," said Gentleman, rising, brushing off hairs. "Good boy. That will do." Then he went and stood at Mrs Sucksby's chair.

"Hallo, Mrs S," he said.

The baby, now, had had a dose of gin, and had cried itself quiet. Mrs Sucksby held out her hand. Gentleman caught it up and kissed it -- first at the knuckles, and then at the tips.

Mrs Sucksby said, "Get up out of that chair, John, and let Gentleman sit down."

John looked like thunder for a minute, then rose and took Dainty's stool. Gentleman sat, and spread his legs towards the fire. He was tall, and his legs were long. He was seven-or eight-and-twenty. Beside him, John looked about six.

Mrs Sucksby kept her eyes upon him while he yawned and rubbed his face. Then he met her gaze, and smiled.

"Well, well," he said. "How's business?"

"Pretty sweet," she answered. The baby lay still, and she patted it as she had used to pat me. Gentleman nodded to it.

"And this little bud," he said: "is it farm, or is it family?"

"Farm, of course," she said.

"A he-bud, or a she-bud?"

"A he-bud, bless his gums! Another poor motherless infant what I shall be bringing up by hand."

Gentleman leaned towards her.

"Lucky boy!" he said, and winked.

Mrs Sucksby cried, "Oh!" and turned pink as a rose. "You sauce-box!"

Nancy or not, he could certainly make a lady blush. We called him Gentleman, because he really was a gent -- had been, he said, to a real gent's school, and had a father and a mother and a sister -- all swells -- whose heart he had just about broke. He had had money once, and lost it all gambling; his pa said he should never have another cent of the family fortune; and so he was obliged to get money the old-fashioned way, by thievery and dodging. He took to the life so well, however, we all said there must have been bad blood way back in that family, that had all come out in him.

He could be quite the painter when he chose, and had done a little work in the forgery line, at Paris; when that fell through, I think he spent a year putting French books into English -- or English books into French -- anyway, putting them slightly different each time, and pinning different titles on them, and so making one old story pass as twenty brand-new ones. Mostly, however, he worked as a confidence-man, and as a sharper at the grand casinos -- for of course, he could mix with Society, and seem honest as the rest. The ladies especially would go quite wild for him. He had three times been nearly married to some rich heiress, but every time the father in the case had grown suspicious and the deal had fallen through. He had ruined many people by selling them stock from counterfeit banks. He was handsome as a plum, and Mrs Sucksby fairly doted on him. He came to Lant Street about once a year, bringing poke to Mr Ibbs, and picking up bad coin, cautions, and tips.

I supposed he had come bringing poke with him, now; and so, it seemed, did Mrs Sucksby, for once he had grown warm again before the fire and Dainty had given him tea, with rum in it, she placed the sleeping baby back in its cradle and smoothed her skirt across her lap and said, "Well now, Gentleman, this is a pleasure all right. We didn't look for you for another month or two. Have you something with you, as Mr Ibbs will like the look of?"

Gentleman shook his head. "Nothing for Mr Ibbs, I am afraid."

"What, nothing? Do you hear that, Mr Ibbs?"

"Very sad," said Mr Ibbs, from his place at the brazier.

Mrs Sucksby grew confidential. "Have you something, then, for me?"

But Gentleman shook his head again.

"Not for you, either, Mrs S," he said. "Not for you; not for Garibaldi here" (meaning John); "not for Dainty, nor for Phil and the boys; nor even for Charley Wag."

He said this, going all about the room with his eyes; and finally looking at me, and then saying nothing. I had taken up the scattered playing-cards, and was sorting them back into their suits. When I saw him gazing -- and, besides him, John and Dainty, and Mrs Sucksby, still quite pink in the face, also looking my way -- I put the cards down. He at once reached over and picked them up, and started shuffling. He was that kind of man, whose hands must always be busy.

"Well, Sue," he said, his eyes still upon me. His eyes were a very clear blue.

"Well, what?" I answered.

"What do you say to this? It's you I've come for."

"Her!" said John, in disgust.

Gentleman nodded. "I have something for you. A proposal."

"A proposal!" said Phil. He had overheard it. "Look out, Sue, he only wants to marry you!"

Dainty screamed, and the boys all sniggered. Gentleman blinked, then took his eyes from me at last, and leaned to Mrs Sucksby to say, "Get rid of our friends at the brazier, would you? But keep John and Dainty: I shall want their help."

Mrs Sucksby hesitated, then glanced at Mr Ibbs; and Mr Ibbs said at once, "Right, lads, these sovs is sweated so hard, the poor queen's quite a shadder. Any more of it, we shall be done for treason." He took up a pail, and began to drop the hot coins into the water, one by one. "Listen to them yellow boys cry hush!" he said. "The gold knows best. Now, what does the gold know?"

"Go on, Uncle Humphry," said Phil. He drew on his coat and turned up his collar. The other boys did the same. "So long," they said, with a nod to me, to John and Dainty and Mrs Sucksby. To Gentleman they said nothing. He watched them go by.

"Watch your back, lads!" he called, as the door was closed behind them. We heard Phil spit again.

Mr Ibbs turned the key in the lock. Then he came and poured himself a cup of tea -- splashing rum in it, as Dainty had for Gentleman. The scent of the rum rose on the steam, to mix with the smell of the fire, the sweated gold, the dogskins, the wet and steaming greatcoat. The rain fell softer upon the grate. John chewed on a peanut, picking shell from his tongue. Mr Ibbs had moved lamps. The table, our faces and hands, showed bright; but the rest of the room was in shadow.

For a minute, no-one spoke. Gentleman still worried the cards, and we sat and watched him. Mr Ibbs watched him hardest of all: his eye grew narrow, and he tilted his head -- he might have been lining him up along the barrel of a gun.

"So, my son," he said. "What's the story?"

Gentleman looked up.

"The story," he said. "The story is this." He took out a card, and laid it, faceup, on the table. It was the King of Diamonds. "Imagine a man," he said, as he did it. "An old man -- a wise man, in his own way -- a gentleman scholar, in fact; but with curious habits. He lives in a certain out-of-the-way sort of house, near a certain out-of-the-way kind of village, some miles from London -- never mind quite where, just now. He has a great room filled with books and prints, and cares for nothing but for them and for a work he is compiling -- let's call it, a dictionary. It is a dictionary of all his books; but he has hopes for the pictures, too -- has taken a mind to having them bound in fancy albums. The handling of that, however, is more than he can manage. He places a notice in a newspaper: he needs the services of -- here he put down another card, next to the first: Jack of Spades -- "a smart young man, to help him mount the collection; and one particular smart young man -- being at that time rather too well known at the London gaminghouses, and highly desirous of a little light out-of-the-way sort of employment, bed and board provided -- replies to the advertisement, is examined, and found fit."

"The smart young man being yourself," said Mr Ibbs.

"The smart young man being me. How you catch on!"

"And the crib in the country," said John, taken up in Gentleman's story despite his sulks, "let's say it's busting with treasure. And you mean to force the locks, on all the cabinets and chests. You have come to Mr Ibbs for a loan of nippers and a jilt; and you want Sue -- with her innocent eyes, what looks like they ain't seen butter -- for your canary."

Gentleman tilted his head, drew in his breath and raised a finger, in a teasing sort of way. Then: "Cold as ice!" he said. "The crib in the country is a damnable place: two hundred years old, and dark, and draughty, and mortgaged to the roof -- which is leaky, by the by. Not a rug or a vase or piece of plate worth forcing so much as a fart for, I'm afraid. The gent eats his supper off china, just like us."

"The old hunks!" said John. "But, tight-wads like that, they stash their money in the bank, don't they? And you have made him write a paper leaving all of it to you; and now you are here for a bottle of poison --"

Gentleman shook his head.

"Not a ounce of poison?" said John, looking hopeful.

"Not an ounce. Not a scruple. And no money in the bank -- not in the old man's name, at least. He lives so quietly and so queerly, he scarcely knows what money's for. But there, do you see, he doesn't live alone. Look here, who he keeps for his companion…"

The Queen of Hearts.

"Heh, heh," said John, growing sly. "A wife, very game."

But Gentleman shook his head again.

"A daughter, ditto?" said John.

"Not a wife. Not a daughter," said Gentleman, with his eyes and his fingers on the Queen's unhappy face. "A niece. In years," he glanced at me, "say Sue's years. In looks, say handsome. Of sense, understanding and knowledge," he smiled, "why, let's say perfectly shy."

"A flat!" said John with relish. "Tell me she's rich, at least."

"She's rich, oh yes," said Gentleman, nodding. "But only as a caterpillar is rich in wings, or clover rich in honey. She's an heiress, Johnny: her fortune is certain, the uncle can't touch it; but it comes with a queer condition attached. She won't see a penny till the day she marries. If she dies a spinster, the money goes to a cousin. If she takes a husband," he stroked the card with one white finger -- "she's rich as a queen."

"How rich?" said Mr Ibbs. He had not spoken, all this time. Gentleman heard him now, looked up, and held his gaze.

"Ten thousand in ready," he said quietly. "Five thousand in the funds."

A coal in the fire went pop. John gave a whistle through his broken tooth, and Charley Wag barked. I glanced at Mrs Sucksby, but her head was bent and her look was dark. Mr Ibbs took a sip from his tea, in a considering way.

"I'll bet the old man keeps her close, don't he?" he said, when the tea was swallowed.

"Close enough," said Gentleman, nodding, moving back. "He's made a secretary of her, all these years -- has her reading to him for hours at a stretch. I think he hardly knows she has grown up and turned into a lady." He gave a secret sort of smile. "I think she knows it, though. No sooner do I start work on the pictures than she discovers in herself a passion for painting. She wants lessons, with me as her master. Now, I know enough in that line to fake my way; and she, in her innocence, can't tell a pastel from a pig. But she takes to her instruction -- oh, like anything. We have a week of lessons: I teach her lines, I teach her shadows. The second week goes by: we move from shadows to design. Third week -- blushing watercolours. Next, the blending of the oils. Fifth week --"

"Fifth week, you jiggles her!" said John.

Gentleman closed his eyes.

"Fifth week, our lessons are cancelled," he said. "Do you think a girl like that may sit in a room, with a gentleman tutor, alone? We have had her Irish maid sit with us, all this time -- coughing and turning red in the face, every time my fingers stray too near her lady's, or my breath comes too warm upon her little white cheek. I thought her a marvellous prude; it turns out she had the scarlet fever -- is at this moment dying of it, poor bitch. Now my lady has no chaperon but the housekeeper -- and the housekeeper is too busy to sit at lessons. The lessons, therefore, must end, the paints are left to dry upon their palette. Now I only see Miss at supper, at her uncle's side; and sometimes, if I pass her chamber door, I hear her sighing."

"And just," said Mr Ibbs, "as you was getting on so nicely."

"Just so," said Gentleman. "Just so."

"Poor lady!" said Dainty. Her eyes had tears in them. She could cry at anything. "And her quite a peach, you say? About the figure and the face?"

Gentleman looked careless. "She can fill a man's eye, I suppose," he said, with a shrug.

John laughed. "I should like to fill her eye!"

"I should like to fill yours," said Gentleman, steadily. Then he blinked. "With my fist, I mean."

John's cheek grew dark, and he jumped to his feet. "I should like to see you try it!"

Mr Ibbs lifted his hands. "Boys! Boys! That's enough! I won't have it, before ladies and kids! John, sit down and stop fucking about. Gentleman, you promised us your story; what we've had so far has been so much pastry. Where's the meat, son? Where's the meat? And, more to our point, how is Susie to help cook it?"

John kicked the leg of his stool, then sat. Gentleman had taken out a packet of cigarettes. We waited, while he found a match and struck it. We watched the flare of the sulphur in his eyes. Then he leaned to the table again and touched the three cards he had laid there, putting straight their edges.

"You want the meat," he said. "Very well, here it is." He tapped the Queen of Hearts. "I aim to marry this girl and take her fortune. I aim to steal her" -- he slid the card to one side -- "from under her uncle's nose. I am in a fair way to doing it already, as you have heard; but she's a queer sort of girl, and can't be trusted to herself -- and should she take some clever, hard woman for her new servant, why then I'm ruined. I have come to London to collect a set of bindings for the old man's albums. I want to send Sue back before me. I want to set her up there as the lady's maid, so that she might help me woo her."

He caught my eye. He still played idly with the card, with one pale hand. Now he lowered his voice.

"And there's something else," he said, "that I shall need Sue's help with. Once I have married this girl, I shan't want her about me. I know a man who will take her off my hands. He has a house, where he'll keep her. It's a mad-house. He'll keep her close. So close, perhaps…" He did not finish, but turned the card face down, and kept his fingers on its back. "I must only marry her," he said, "and -- as Johnny would say -- I must jiggle her, once, for the sake of the cash. Then I'll take her, unsuspecting, to the madhouse gates. Where's the harm? Haven't I said, she's half-simple already? But I want to be sure. I shall need Sue by her to keep her simple; and to persuade her, in her simple-ness, into the plot."

He drew again upon his cigarette and, as they had before, everyone turned their eyes on me. Everyone that is, save Mrs Sucksby. She had listened, saying nothing, while Gentleman spoke. I had watched her pour a little of her tea out of her cup into her saucer, then swill it about the china and finally raise it to her mouth, while the story went on. She could never bear hot tea, she said it hardened the lips. And certainly, I don't believe I ever knew a grown-up woman with lips as soft as hers.

Now, in the silence, she put her cup and saucer down, then drew out her handkerchief and wiped her mouth. She looked at Gentleman, and finally spoke. "Why Sue," she said, "of all the girls in England? Why my Sue?"

"Because she is yours, Mrs S," he answered. "Because I trust her; because she's a good girl -- which is to say, a bad girl, not too nice about the fine points of the law."

She nodded. "And how do you mean," she asked next, "to cut the shine?"

Again he looked at me; but he still spoke to her.

"She shall have two thousand pounds," he said, smoothing his whiskers; "and shall take any of the little lady's bits and frocks and jewels that she likes."

That was the deal. We thought it over.

"What do you say?" he said at last -- to me, this time. And then, when I did not answer: "I am sorry," he said, "to spring this upon you; but you can see the little time I have had to act in. I must get a girl soon. I should like it to be you, Sue. I should like it to be you, more than anyone. But if it is not to be, then tell me quickly, will you? -- so I might find out another."

"Dainty will do it," said John, when he heard that. "Dainty was a maid once -- wasn't you, Daint? -- for a lady in a great house at Peckham."

"As I recall," said Mr Ibbs, drinking his tea, "Dainty lost that place through putting a hat-pin to the lady's arm."

"She was a bitch to me," said Dainty, "and got my dander up. This girl don't sound like a bitch. She's a flat, you said so. I could maid for a flat."

"It was Sue that was asked," said Mrs Sucksby quietly. "And she still ain't said."

Then, again they all looked at me; and their eyes made me nervous. I turned my head. "I don't know," I said. "It seems a rum sort of plot to me. Set me up, as maid to a lady? How shall I know what to do?"

"We can teach you," said Gentleman. "Dainty can teach you, since she knows the business. How hard can it be? You must only sit and simper, and hold the lady's salts."

I said, "Suppose the lady won't want me for her maid? Why should she want me?"

But he had thought of that. He had thought of everything. He said he meant to pass me off as his old nurse's sister's child -- a city girl come on hard times. He said he thought the lady would take me then, for his sake.

He said, "We'll write you a character -- sign it Lady Fanny of Bum Street, something like that -- she won't know any better. She never saw Society, doesn't know London from Jerusalem. Who can she ask?"

"I don't know," I said again. "Suppose she don't care for you, so much as you are hoping?"

He grew modest. "Well," he said, "I think I might be permitted by now, to know when a green girl likes me."

"Suppose," said Mrs Sucksby then, "she don't like you quite enough? Suppose she turns out another Miss Bamber or Miss Finch?"

Miss Bamber and Miss Finch were two of the other heiresses he had almost netted. But he heard their names, and snorted. "She won't," he said, "turn out like them, I know it. Those girls had fathers -- ambitious fathers, with lawyers on every side. This girl's uncle can see no further than the last page of his book. As to her not liking me enough -- well, I can only say this: I think she will."

"Enough to do a flit, from her uncle's house?"

"It's a grim house," he answered, "for a girl of her years."

"But it's the years that will work against you," said Mr Ibbs. You picked up bits and pieces of Law, of course, in a line like his. "Till she is one-and-twenty, she shall need her uncle's say. Take her as fast and as quiet as you like: he shall come and take her back again. You being her husband won't count for buttons, then."

"But her being my wife, will. -- If you understand me," said Gentleman slyly.

Dainty looked blank. John saw her face. "The jiggling," he said.

"She shall be ruined," said Mrs Sucksby. "No other gent will want her, then."

Dainty gaped more than ever.

"Never mind it," said Mr Ibbs, lifting his hand. Then, to Gentleman: "It's tricky. Uncommonly tricky."

"I don't say it's not. But we must take our chances. What have we to lose? If nothing else, it will be a holiday for Sue."

John laughed. "A holiday," he said, "it will be. A fucking long one, if you get caught."

I bit my lip. He was right. But it wasn't so much the risk that troubled me. You cannot be a thief and always troubling over hazards, you should go mad. It was only that, I was not sure I wanted any kind of holiday. I was not sure I cared for it away from the Borough. I had once gone with Mrs Sucksby to visit her cousin in Bromley; I had come home with hives. I remembered the country as quiet and queer, and the people in it either simpletons or gipsies.

How would I like living with a simpleton girl? She would not be like Dainty, who was only slightly touched and only sometimes violent. She might be really mad. She might try and throttle me; and there would be no-one about, for miles and miles, to hear me calling. Gipsies would be no use, they were all for themselves. Everyone knows a gipsy would not cross the street to spit on you, if you were on fire.

I said, "This girl -- what's she like? You said she's queer in her head."

"Not queer," said Gentleman. "Only what I should call fey. She's an innocent, a natural. She has been kept from the world. She's an orphan, like you are; but where you had Mrs Sucksby to sharpen you up, she had -- no-one."

Dainty looked at him then. Her mother had been a drunkard, and got drowned in the river. Her father had used to beat her. He beat her sister till she died. She said, in a whisper: "Ain't it terribly wicked, Gentleman, what you mean to do?"

I don't believe any of us had thought it, before that moment. Now Dainty said it, and I gazed about me, and nobody would catch my eye.

Then Gentleman laughed.

"Wicked?" he said. "Why, bless you, Dainty, of course it's wicked! But it's wicked to the tune of fifteen thousand pounds -- and oh! but that's a sweet tune, hum it how you will. Then again, do you suppose that when that money was first got, it was got honestly? Don't think it! Money never is. It is got, by families like hers, from the backs of the poor -- twenty backs broken for every shilling made. You have heard, have you, of Robin Hood?"

"Have I!" she said.

"Well, Sue and I shall be like him: taking gold from the rich and passing it back to the people it was got from."

John curled his lip. "You ponce," he said. "Robin Hood was a hero, a man of wax. Pass the money to the people? What people are yours! You want to rob a lady, go and rob your own mother."

"My mother?" answered Gentleman, colouring up. "What's my mother to do with anything? Hang my mother!" Then he caught Mrs Sucksby's eye, and turned to me. "Oh, Sue," he said. "I do beg your pardon."

"It's all right," I said quickly. And I gazed at the table, and again everyone grew quiet.

Perhaps they were all thinking, as they did on hanging days, "Ain't she brave?" I hoped they were. Then again, I hoped they weren't: for, as I have said, I never was brave, but had got away with people supposing I was, for seventeen years. Now here was Gentleman, needing a bold girl and coming -- forty miles, he had said, in all that cold and slippery weather -- to me.

I raised my eyes to his.

"Two thousand pounds, Sue," he said quietly.

"That'll shine very bright, all right," said Mr Ibbs.

"And all them frocks and jewels!" said Dainty. "Oh, Sue! Shouldn't you look handsome, in them!"

"You should look like a lady," said Mrs Sucksby; and I heard her, and caught her gaze, and knew she was looking at me -- as she had, so many times before -- and was seeing, behind my face, my mother's. Your fortune's still to be made.-- I could almost hear her saying it. Your fortune's still to be made; and ours, Sue, along with it…

And after all, she had been right. Here was my fortune, come from nowhere -- come, at last. What could I say? I looked again at Gentleman. My heart beat hard, like hammers in my breast. I said: "All right. I'll do it. But for three thousand pounds, not two. And if the lady don't care for me and sends me home, I shall want a hundred anyway, for the trouble of trying."

He hesitated, thinking it over. Of course, that was all a show. After a second he smiled, then he held his hand to me and I gave him mine. He pressed my fingers, and laughed.

John scowled. "I'll give you ten to one she comes back crying in a week," he said.

"I'll come back dressed in a velvet gown," I answered. "With gloves up to here, and a hat with a veil on, and a bag full of silver coin. And you shall have to call me miss. Won't he, Mrs Sucksby?"

He spat. "I'll tear my own tongue out, before I do that!"

"I'll tear it out first!" I said.

I sound like a child. I was a child! Perhaps Mrs Sucksby was thinking that, too. For she said nothing, only sat, still gazing at me, with her hand at her soft lip. She smiled; but her face seemed troubled. I could almost have said, she was afraid.

Perhaps she was.

Or perhaps I only think that now, when I know what dark and fearful things were to follow.