“Yes, I think I have seen some one like that, but she's not been around here long.”
“When did you see her last?”
“If it's the same one you mean, I saw her go by here not ten minutes ago. She lives somewhere down the alley.”
“Do you know the house?”
“I do not; but it can be found, no doubt. You called her Pinky.”
“Yes. Her name is Pinky Swett.”
“O-h! o-h!” ejaculated the shop-woman, lifting her eyebrows in a surprised way. “Why, that's the girl the police were after. They said she'd run off with somebody's child.”
“Did they arrest her?” asked Mrs. Bray, repressing, as far as possible, all excitement.
“They took her off once or twice, I believe, but didn't make anything out of her. At any rate, the child was not found. It belonged, they said, to a rich up-town family that the girl was trying to black-mail. But I don't see how that could be.”
“The child isn't about here?”