"No, ma'am; I haven't seen any thing of him."
My tone of voice seemed to inspire her with confidence, for she came up close to me, and bent her face toward mine.
"It is a dreadful place," she whispered, huskily. "And they say he comes here. Poor boy! He isn't what he used to be."
"It is a very bad place," said I. "Come"—and I moved a step or two in the direction from which I had seen her approaching—"come, you'd better go away as quickly as possible."
"But if he's here," she answered, not moving from where she stood, "I might save him, you know."
"I am sure you won't find him, ma'am," I urged. "Perhaps he is home, now."
"Oh, no! no!" And she shook her head mournfully. "He never comes home until long after midnight. I wish I could see inside of the bar-room. I'm sure he must be there."
"If you will tell me his name, I will go in and search for him."
After a moment of hesitation she answered:
"His name is Willy Hammond."