“Towards her, perhaps, yes.”
“And your child?”
“Yes, yes, yes,” wailed Agnes; “but don’t torture me. What do you know?—what do you wish me to do?—why do you follow me?”
“What is your name?” said the curate sternly; “and how came you to know her?” and he pointed again towards Bennett’s-rents.
“Don’t ask me, I cannot tell you,” sobbed Agnes.
“But you bring misery on her and on her home. You have some hold upon her?”
“No, no, no,” sobbed Agnes hysterically; “none, none; but she knows who I am, and pities me and my poor child. God’s blessing on her!”
“Amen!” muttered the curate under his breath, and his companion sobbed so convulsively that she could not speak, while, as they stood in the dark entry, a policeman came slowly by, flashed the light of his bull’s-eye upon them for an instant, recognised the curate and passed on, and, till he was out of hearing, Agnes Hardon clutched the curate’s arm.
“You are not afraid of the world and it’s opinions,” she said bitterly; “it cannot hurt you. Stay with me and I will tell you all, for I believe you mean me well.”
The curate bowed his head.