John Hartley ordered the hackman to stop. He sprang from the carriage, and unceremoniously entered the bar-room. Donovan, a short, thickset man with reddish whiskers, a beard of a week's growth, and but one serviceable eye, sat in a wooden arm-chair, smoking a clay pipe. There were two other men in the room, and a newsboy sat dozing on a settee.
Donovan looked up, and his face assumed a look of surprise as he met the glance of the visitor, whom he appeared to know.
"Where did you come from, Mr. Hartley?" he asked, taking the pipe from his mouth.
"Hist! Come out here," said Hartley.
Donovan obeyed directions.
"Is your wife at home, Hugh?" asked Hartley.
"Yes, Mr. Hartley. She's up stairs."
"I have a job for her and for you."
"What is it now?"
"I have a child in that carriage. I want her taken care of for a few days or weeks."