What had become of her? Had the woman-devouring monster consumed the innocent girl and come back for more prey? He will prey no more, soon; he has met his deserts at last. The stony walls of the Tombs' prison, will hold him safe, and when he recovers from his broken arm, the law will have its course. He will make a good Sing Sing worker in stone. It will not break his heart, for it is as hard as the stone he will hammer.
But what of poor Agnes? Would that I knew. Did she fall before his basalisk eye? Such thoughts were upon my mind as I entered the door of the house I called my home, after such a night of strange adventures as I have just made the reader acquainted with.
"Where have you been?" was the anxious question that met me as I entered.
"What in the world took you out and kept you out all night? Did you find that woman? How is she? Is anything the matter? I do think you might write quite a romance out of your adventures."
There is no occasion to write romance, it is only necessary to give the real pictures of life—real scenes as they occur in New York, to make up a volume more strange than wildest romance.
"Where have I been? Where I saw strange sights. Where it does seem as though some mysterious influence led me, to meet with another adventure."
"You might have had one at home, sufficiently interesting, I should think. A young girl, wickedly made drunk, for the basest purpose on earth—'tis a horrid tale—you shall hear it by and by—unprotected—alone in the street, at midnight—staggering to and fro, chased like a dog by a crowd of boys and half-drunken men, taking refuge in our basement area, within ten minutes after you left the house."
"You took her in? Yes, yes; I see, I see—a heavenly deed produces a heavenly smile."
What was it shot through my brain? A thought. A strange thought. What could have sent it there. Is it true? We shall see.
"What is her name?—where is she? You have not sent her away?"