Flo had seen—she coloured and hesitated.
“You need not speak unless you wish to,” said the policeman more kindly, “but I perceive you know all about these boys, so you must appear as witness. See! where do you live?”
“Cellar number 7, Duncan Street, Saint Giles,” said Flo promptly.
“Ah!” said the policeman, “I thought those cellars was shut up. They ain’t fit for pigs. Well, my dear, ’tis a nice-sounding, respectable address, and I’ll serve you a notice to-morrow to appear as witness. Don’t you go hiding, for wherever you are I’ll find you. On Thursday morning at 10 o’clock at Q— Police-Station.” And nodding to Flo, he walked off, bearing his sullen, ashamed, crest-fallen prisoners with him.
“Come ’ome wid me, dear,” said a poor miserable-looking neighbour, an occupant of another Duncan Street cellar. “Come ’ome wid me,” she said, touching the dazed, stunned-looking child; “I’ll take care of yer the rest of the way,” and she took her hand and led her out of the crowd.
“There now,” said the woman kindly, “don’t yer fret, dearie—it ain’t so bad, and it won’t be so bad. Dick, ’ee’ll on’y get a month or two at the ’formatary, and t’other chap a bit longer, and hout they’ll come none the worse. Don’t yer fret, dearie.”
“No, ma’am,” answered Flo with a little smile, “I ain’t frettin’.” Nor was she exactly. She had an awful vision before her of mother’s dead face, that was all. During the rest of the long walk home that patient, tired face was before her. She was not fretting, she was too stunned as yet—that would come by and by.
Her neighbour tried to make her talk, tried to smooth matters for her, but they could not be smoothed, nothing could soften the awful fact that Dick was going to prison, that he had broken his word to his dying mother. It was quite dusk, past 9 o’clock, when they reached Duncan Street, and the cellar door of number 7, which the children had fastened when they had started so light-hearted and happy for the Derby the day before, was now open. Flo hardly noticed this. She ran down, eager to throw her arms round Scamp’s neck, and weep out her heart with his faithful head on her bosom.
“But—what had happened?”
Flo expected to hear his eager bark of welcome the moment she entered the cellar, but there was no sound. She called to him, no answer. She struck a match and lit the tallow candle,—Scamp’s place was empty, Scamp was gone. She stooped down and examined the spot carefully. If he had freed himself there would have been some pieces of the rope hanging to the table, but no, all trace of it was gone.