“A woman called Sheila Carrol is the one I’m lookin’ for,” said Norah. “I went to 47, Ann Street last night, for I had a letter from her there. But the place was closed up.”
“Sheila Carrol, they cry her, ye say?” said the old woman, getting out of bed. “Maybe it’s her that I ken. She came from Ireland with a little boy and she used to work with me at one time. A comely strong-boned wench she was. Came from Frosses, she once told me.”
“That’s Sheila!”
“And she’s left 47?”
“So I hear.”
“Then take my advice and try No. 46 and No. 48,” said Mary Martin; “and also every close in the street. The people that lived in 47 will not gang far awa’ from it. They’ll be in the next close or thereabouts. What do they cry you, lass?” asked the old woman, slipping into her rags.
“Norah Ryan.”
“A pretty name it is, indeed. And have ye threepence to spare for my breakfast, Norah Ryan? I haven’t a penny piece in all the wide world.”
Norah gave threepence of her hard-earned money to Mary, sorted her dress and stole out into the streets to search for Sheila Carrol.