"Not a word till you're satisfied," directed Armstrong. "I'll just take a little bread and coffee, to keep you company."
The woman adequately proved her statement that she was hungry. Rarely had Gabriel seen anybody eat with such ravenous appetite. He watched her with satisfaction, and when she could consume no more, smiled as he asked:
"Now, then, feel better? If so, let's tackle the next problem. What's your grief?"
The woman stared at him a long moment before she made reply. Then she exclaimed suddenly:
"You ain't no kind of 'bull,' are you? Nor plain-clothes man?"
Gabriel shook his head.
"No," said he, "nothing of that kind. You can trust me. Let's have the story."
"Hm! It ain't much, I s'pose," she answered still half-suspiciously. "Bill and me was livin' together, that's all. No, not married, nor nothin'—but—"
"All right. Go on."
"That was last winter. When the kid happened—Ed, you know—Bill, he got sore, an' beat it. Then I—I went on the street, to keep Ed. Nothin' else to do, Mister, so help me, an'—"