"'Old yer jawr," yelled Mother Guttersnipe, rising, and making a dart at the bed. "I'll choke the life out ye, s'elp me. D'y want me to murder ye, singin' 'em funeral things?"
Meanwhile the detective was talking rapidly to Mr. Calton.
"The only person who can prove Mr. Fitzgerald was here between one and two o'clock," he said, quickly, "is Sal Rawlins, as everyone else seems to have been drunk or asleep. As she has joined the Salvation Army, I'll go to the barracks the first thing in the morning and look for her."
"I hope you'll find her," answered Calton, drawing a long breath. "A man's life hangs on her evidence."
They turned to go, Calton having first given Mother Guttersnipe some loose silver, which she seized on with an avaricious clutch.
"You'll drink it, I suppose?" said the barrister, shrinking back from her.
"Werry likely," retorted the hag, with a repulsive grin, tying the money up in a piece of her dress, which she tore off for the purpose. "I'm a forting to the public-'ouse, I am, an' it's the on'y pleasure I 'ave in my life, cuss it."
The sight of money had a genial effect on her nature, for she held the candle at the head of the stairs, as they went down, so that they should not break their heads. As they arrived safely, they saw the light vanish, and heard the sick woman singing, "The Last Rose of Summer."
The street door was open, and, after groping their way along the dark passage, with its pitfalls, they found themselves in the open street.
"Thank heaven," said Calton, taking off his hat, and drawing a long breath. "Thank heaven we are safely out of that den!"