"You will come to the Court to-morrow with Mr. Kilsip," he said to Sal, "and tell what you have just now told me."
"It's all true, s'elp me," said Sal, eagerly; "'e was 'ere all the time."
Calton stepped towards the door, followed by the detective, when Mother Guttersnipe rose.
"Where's the money for finin' her?" she screeched, pointing one skinny finger at Sal.
"Well, considering the girl found herself," said Calton, dryly, "the money is in the bank, and will remain there."
"An' I'm to be done out of my 'ard earned tin, s'elp me?" howled the old fury. "Cuss ye, I'll 'ave the lawr of ye, and get ye put in quod."
"You'll go there yourself if you don't take care," said Kilsip, in his soft, purring tones.
"Yah!" shrieked Mother Guttersnipe, snapping her fingers at him. "What do I care about yer quod? Ain't I bin in Pentrig', an' it ain't 'urt me, it ain't? I'm as lively as a gal, I am."
And the old fury, to prove the truth of her words, danced a kind of war dance in front of Mr. Calton, snapping her fingers and yelling out curses, as an accompaniment to her ballet. Her luxurious white hair streamed out during her gyrations, and with her grotesque appearance and the faint light of the candle, she presented a gruesome spectacle.
Calton remembered the tales he had heard of the women of Paris, at the revolution, and the way they danced "La Carmagnole." Mother Guttersnipe would have been in her element in that sea of blood and turbulence he thought. But he merely shrugged his shoulders, and walked out of the room, as with a final curse, delivered in a hoarse voice, Mother Guttersnipe sank exhausted on the floor, and yelled for gin.