“Well, y’are a deep ’un, or a softy, blest if I know which, not t’ve found all about ’er from the start, if yer not lyin’, as is most likely.”
“But what am I to do?”
“Dunno. You go ’long to the perlice station, an’ p’raps the bobbies’ll tell you.”
“Where is it?” asked Prudence wearily.
Several of the women pointed out the direction, and followed by a little procession of interested but shock-headed observers, who made unfavourable comments on her manners, morals, and appearance, the younger Miss Semaphore took her way, for the first time in her life, to the police station, and made tearful enquiries of a constable at the door.
“Step this way, ma’am,” said he.
While the disappointed crowd hung about, and, foreseeing no startling or tragic dénouement, gradually melted away, Prudence was ushered into the presence of a severe official seated at a table covered with neatly docketed papers.
The constable, a fresh-coloured young fellow from the country, saluted.
“Please, sir, this person’s called about the Plummer’s Cottages Baby Farming Case. Says she’s mother to one of the hinfants.”
“Sister,” corrected Miss Semaphore timidly. “I am not a married lady, my good man.”