"Of course it is. The least I can expect is to be made guardian of my own child. But we are wasting time. Is there no way of getting up stairs except by passing through the bar-room?"
"Yes, Mr. Hartley, we can go up the back way. Just take the child and follow me."
Hartley did so. At the rear of the house was a stair-way, up which he clambered, bearing the sleeping child in his arms.
Donovan pushed the door open, and disclosed a dirty room, with his better-half—a tall, gaunt woman—reclining in a rocking-chair, evidently partially under the influence of liquor, as might be guessed from a black bottle on a wooden table near by.
She stared in astonishment at her husband's companions.
"Shure, Hugh, who is it you're bringin' here?"
"It's a child, old woman, that you're to have the care of."
"Divil a bit do I want a child to worrit me."
"You'll be well paid, Mrs. Donovan," said John Hartley.