“Do I not?” said Bobbie confidently.
They descended at the turbulent junction of roads near Shoreditch Station, and the boy conducted Myddleton West along the noisy crowded pavement of Kingsland Road, under the railway arch towards the police station. Glancing down Drysdale Street as he passed, Bobbie noticed Bat Miller near the gas-lamp talking to Nose’s sister; observed also in the shadow of the arch Mrs. Bat Miller watching the scene, her face white and her lips moving. As soon as he had shown Myddleton West the entrance to the police station, and had received sixpence for his pains, he hurried through to Hoxton Street, coming back into Drysdale Street from that end. His intention had been to witness the comedy that he assumed to be impending; to his great regret, just as Mr. Bat Miller began to punch the dark young woman affectionately, the young men who guarded Drysdale Street from the ruthless invader suddenly appeared, led by Nose and by Libbis, and the odds being about eight to one, drove him off with furious threats. He went back to the police station in order to complete the earning of his sixpence by reconducting Myddleton West to the tram for Bloomsbury. Approaching the station, on the steps of which plain clothes men were as usual lounging, he saw Mrs. Bat Miller on the opposite side of the roadway, her white apron over her head, beckoning to one of the plain clothes men. Then she walked carelessly into Union Street. The detective followed her. Bobbie slipped across and stood in a doorway.
“Well, my dear,” said the detective. “What’s your little game?”
“Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Bat Miller, panting. She pressed one hand against her bodice and gasped for breath. “Do you want—want to do a fair cop?”
“A fair cop,” said Mr. Thorpe, cheerfully, “would just now come in very handy. Who are the parties?”
“He’s behaved like a wretch,” said the young woman breathlessly, “or I’d never ’are turned on him. I’m as striteforward a gel as ever breathed in all ’Oxton, ain’t I, Mr. Thorpe?”
“No one more so,” agreed the detective. “What’s the name of—”
“Anything else I could ’ave forgive him,” she said, trembling with passion. “When we’ve been ’ard up and he’s come ’ome with not a penny in his pocket and me gone without dinner, did I complain?”
“Course you didn’t. Who—”
“When he was put away for six months three year ago, didn’t I slave and keep myself to myself, and go and meet him down at Wandsworth when he came out?”