"That's her, sure enough—eh, young gentleman?" remarked the police officer in private clothes.
There was another pause—the girl's face blanched still more, and the look in her eyes became even more intense and eager; the boy glanced over his shoulder at the servants of the law.
"No—this isn't the girl. Oh! no."
"Are you quite certain? Stand up, Mattie."
Mattie turned out of her rug and stood up, erect and motionless, with her hands to her side, and her sharp black eyes still on Master Hinchford.
"Oh! no, policeman. Ever so much taller!"
"Then we're on the wrong scent it seems, and you'd better go home and leave it to us. Good night, Mrs. Watts."
"Good night," was the muttered response.
Policeman, detective, and Master Hinchford went down the stairs to the court, out of the court into Kent Street, black and noisome—a turgid current, that wore only a semblance of stillness at hours more late than that.
"We'll let you know in the morning if there's any clue," said the detective. "Jem," to the policeman, "see this lad out of Kent Street."