‘’Ark at ’im,’ said a woman. ‘Why, the gal’s got a nole ’at full!’
‘What girl?’ said the old man sharply.
At that moment the girl dodged through the little crowd and disappeared, bag and all, down Piccadilly.
‘Stop her! stop her!’ cried one or two ineffective voices.
The old man dashed his penny whistle angrily on the ground, buried his face in his hands, turned to the wall, and broke into shoulder-shaking sobs.
‘What, ain’t that your gal?’ asked a compassionate stout man in black, with a worn leather bag, touching him gently on the heaving shoulder—a dentist from the slums, one might guess him at.
‘Small girl in black, was it?’ asked the blind man.
‘Yes, I think so. I didn’t exactly notice.’
‘Sort of orphan-looking girl, very quiet?’
‘Yes, that’s her.’