Prudence, having laboriously counted her streets, followed his directions. The second turn to the left brought her into a dingy byway, and the first to the right again into a slum. Barker’s Rents towered up to the sky, and at the door of the Model Dwellings a group of slatternly women were discussing personal topics with much freedom, and a running accompaniment of “sez he,” “sez I,” and “sez she.”
No. 42 was an inconspicuous cottage, with a battered green door, reached by a single step. Prudence knocked at it with the handle of her umbrella without any response. She repeated the summons, but in vain, and, having shaken the door, which resisted her efforts to open it, she endeavoured to peep through the dingy window. Her proceedings excited considerable interest amongst the ladies standing at the Model Dwellings, as indeed amongst all the residents in the neighbourhood, who came out by twos and threes until at last, Prudence, turning round, was surprised and alarmed to find herself the centre of an unwashed and, to her eyes, menacing crowd.
“’Tis no good your rapping,” said a burly woman, pushing her way through. “There ain’t no one there. The ’ouse is empty.”
“Empty!” ejaculated Prudence. “Since when?”
“They cleared out last night like winking.”
“Oh, but there must be some mistake. I am looking for a Mrs. Brown.”
“You bet!” said the woman, addressing the crowd, “she’s one o’ them. Nice lot she must be to ’and ’er own flesh an’ blood hover to Sal Brown.”
The crowd signified approval of this view by a series of hoots and cat calls.
“But I don’t know what you mean,” cried the frightened and bewildered Prudence, “I want to find a Mrs. Brown, who told me her address was 42, Plummer’s Cottages, and now that I come here, I find the place shut up and you say the woman is gone. Can anyone tell me where to find her?”
“I’ll tell ye fast enough,” said the burly woman. “She’s in the lock-up, Sal Brown is; she’s to be brought up before the beak to-day on a drunk and disorderly.”