“Well, what's that got to do with it?” Kitty demanded. “What did she have to do with the boy?”
“Nothing, don't I tell ye—she's been swipin' a department store, and they got her dead to rights.”
“Who's been swipin'? What are ye talkin' about, Mike? Stop it now—I've got a lot to do, and—”
“The woman ye put to bed that night. The one ye picked up near St. Barnabas, and brought in here and dried her off. She skipped in the mornin' without sayin' 'thank ye'—why, ye must remember her! She was—”
Kitty clapped her two palms to her face, framing her bulging eyes—a favorite gesture when she was taken completely by surprise.
“That woman!” she cried, staring at Mike. “Where is she now? Tell me—”
“I don't know—but she—”
“Ye don't know, and ye come down here with this yarn? Don't ye try and fool me, Mike, or I'll break every bone in yer skin. Go on, now! How do ye know it's the same woman?”
“I'm tellin' ye no lies. Come back with me and see for yerself. The cap will let ye go down and talk to her. I heard Father Cruse tell ye to keep an eye out for her if she ever came around here agin. Ye got to hurry or they'll have her in the Black Maria on the way to the Tombs. Bunky told me so.”
Kitty stood in deep meditation. She remembered that Mike had been in the kitchen when the woman sat by the stove. She remembered, too, that Father Cruse had cautioned her to send word to the rectory if the poor creature came again and, if there were not time to reach him, then to tell Mr. O'Day. That the priest had not run across the woman at the station-house was evident, or he would have sent word by Mike. She would herself find out and then act.