"'Ere—pull yerself togevver," she whispered. "Wot's wrong wiv yer?"
"If I go into that room I am afraid of what I may do," I said, clutching at the girl, and staring at the closed door. "I'm afraid of myself."
"Wot's 'e done?" she whispered excitedly.
"Nothing you'd understand," I said. "But oh, Moggs—have you ever read or heard anywhere any fairy tale, concerning some wonderful princess, shut away in prison and left to pine, while her lover waited in vain for her. Have you, Moggs?"
She nodded quickly, and her face expanded into a grin. "Yus—I did once," she whispered. "It came 'ere with summink wrapped in it—bit of a Christmas story, it was."
"There's a wonderful princess held prisoner by that man," I whispered eagerly. "And he'll smile—and smile—and I am powerless to do anything to help. You wise little person—tell me what to do?"
She plunged her grubby hands into her hair, and wrinkled up her face in thought; then she caught at my hand again, and whispered a startling suggestion. "Go in an' talk to 'im," she said, "an' keep yer dander down. W'en 'e goes out presently, I'll foller 'im—an' if I don't come back knowin' w'ere she is, my name ain't Moggs. Is she a real tiptopper?"
"Beautiful, and gentle, and good," I assured her, as she listened unctuously.
"An' 'im wot's sweet on 'er—is 'e all right?"