“Twenty-four,” she replied, “next birthday.”
“And the child was put into my hands, sixteen years ago,” said Mrs. Sowler. “Take sixteen from twenty-four, and eight remains. I’m more surprised than ever, miss, at your knowing it to be a girl. It couldn’t have been your child—could it?”
Phoebe started to her feet, in a state of fury. “Do you hear that?” she cried, appealing to Jervy. “How dare you bring me here to be insulted by that drunken wretch?”
Mrs. Sowler rose, on her side. The old savage snatched up her empty glass—intending to throw it at Phoebe. At the same moment, the ready Jervy caught her by the arm, dragged her out of the room, and shut the door behind them.
There was a bench on the landing outside. He pushed Mrs. Sowler down on the bench with one hand, and took Phoebe’s purse out of his pocket with the other. “Here’s a pound,” he said, “towards the recovery of that debt of yours. Go home quietly, and meet me at the door of this house tomorrow evening, at six.”
Mrs. Sowler, opening her lips to protest, suddenly closed them again, fascinated by the sight of the gold. She clutched the coin, and became friendly and familiar in a moment. “Help me downstairs, deary,” she said, “and put me into a cab. I’m afraid of the night air.”
“One word more, before I put you into a cab,” said Jervy. “What did you really do with the child?”
Mrs. Sowler grinned hideously, and whispered her reply, in the strictest confidence.
“Sold her to Moll Davies, for five-and-sixpence.”
“Who was Moll Davis?”