"Her appearance in court might certainly justify that conclusion," said the magistrate.
The young woman had gazed vacantly about her with an air of indifference. She seemed scarcely to realize that through the yellow vagueness the eyes of a hundred persons were centered on her haggard face.
"Anybody here who knows her?" asked the bench.
"Yes, your worship; I found out the old woman alonger she lodged."
"Let us hear the old person."
A woman in middle life—a little, confused, aimless, uncomfortable body—stepped into the box. She answered to the name of Drayton. Her husband was a hotel porter. She had a house in Pimlico. A month ago one of her rooms on the first floor back had been to let. She put a card in her window, and the prisoner applied. Accepted the young lady as tenant, and had been duly paid her rent. Knew nothing of who she was or where she came from. Couldn't even get her name. Had heard her call the baby Paul. That was all she knew.
"Her occupation, my good woman, what was it?
"Nothing; she hadn't no occupation, your worship."
"Never went out? Not at night?"
"No, sir; leastways not at night, sir. I hopes your worship takes me for an honest woman, sir."