“So you and yer mother ha’ left Spiller Court, Meg Harris?”
“Oh, yes,” answered Meg brightly; “I’m on my h’own spec’ now, I and this yere gal; we’re purwiding fur one another. I wor thinking, Hannah,” she continued, “as you might make us a shake-down in yer cellar; we’d pay yer two pence a night, that’s a penny each. I know as you ha’ plenty o’ room, for yer h’all alone.”
The other and younger girl had shrunk a trifle away from the bold, coarse-looking woman, but Meg had come up and laid her hand on Hannah’s arm.
“You’ll let us in to-night, won’t yer, Hannah?” said Meg again.
Now Hannah was rather fond of Meg, and would gladly have nearly paid the rent of her cellar by admitting these two little lodgers, but the presence of Roy of course made this impossible. To hide her real disappointment she spoke a little more roughly than usual.
“I can’t no how,” she said; “I ha’ a job on hand as ’ull take h’up all my spare room, and I can’t ha’ no gals a loitering around. You look further afield, Meg Harris.”
The younger girl seemed perceptibly relieved, and Meg, with a good-natured nod, walked on. But Hannah felt a vague sense of uneasiness. That youngest girl, had she seen her before? Her face puzzled, nay more, it annoyed her; she was an anxious, thin, dark-eyed child; her dress was as ragged as Meg’s, but somehow she looked far above Meg in respectability. Where had Hannah Searles seen her before? She turned a corner: she was now passing a police station, and yes, there was what she dreaded, a full description of little Roy; she stopped fascinated, to read it.
LOST.
Ten Pounds Reward.
Stayed away from his home on Sunday night, a little boy, aged two years, dressed in a light-blue frock, white pinafore, white socks, blue shoes.