"Would you mind giving me that poor woman's name and address? I pledge you my word," I added, perhaps unnecessarily, "that I'll say no word to hurt her pride or wound her feelings."
"18, Cripps Court," was the reply; "and her name's Frost. But there's five families living in the house, most of 'em in one room, and two of them are Frost. The one you want is Mrs. Fred Frost."
"Thank you very much. It is very good of you to take this trouble," I said. "Are there any other cases equally bad that you know? If so, I'd be grateful to be told of them."
"Lots," was the laconic reply. "I can give you enough names, without your going out of this street, to keep you busy for a week. There's a couple at No. 9, in the top room. They've pawned every stick they've got, and are sleeping on bare boards on the floor. I know they haven't had anything to eat for two days. But you won't want anything to do with them, I expect. The man's a thief by trade, and the woman—well, she's worse, and I know for certain they ain't husband and wife."
"I don't care what they are," I replied hotly. "They're fellow-creatures, made of the same flesh and blood as we are, and they're in want. What name shall I ask for them by?"
"Lowe," she said. "That's the name they go by, anyway."
Thanking the good woman behind the counter for her help, I set out to find Mrs. Fred Frost.
The door of No. 18, Cripps Court, was opened by a wan, haggard-looking woman, whom the summons had apparently disturbed in the act of suckling a sickly-looking baby, which she held on one arm, while the hand of her other arm was fumbling at the unbuttoned bosom of her dress.
"Good morning," I said, raising my hat. "Can you tell me, please, if Mrs. Fred Frost is in?"
"No, sir, she's not," she answered civilly; "her baby's dead, and she's gone to find her husband, who's trying to get a job at the docks."