ors.

"Who d'you want?" he said. "If it's the girl, she's gone away, and left
no address."

"I want Mrs. Hughs," said Martin.

The young man coughed. "Right-o! You'll find her; but for him, apply
Wormwood Scrubs."

"Prison! What for?"

"Stickin' her through the wrist with his bayonet;" and the young man let
a long, luxurious fume of smoke trickle through his nose.

"How horrible!" said Thyme.

Martin regarded the young man, unmoved. "That stuff' you're smoking's
rank," he said. "Have some of mine; I'll show you how to make them.
It'll save you one and three per pound of baccy, and won't rot your
lungs."

Taking out his pouch, he rolled a cigarette. The white young man bent
his dull wink on Thyme, who, wrinkling her nose, was pretending to be far
away.

Mounting the narrow stairs that smelt of walls and washing and red
herrings, Thyme spoke: "Now, you see, it wasn't so simple as you thought.
I don't want to go up; I don't want to see her. I shall wait for you
here." She took her stand in the open doorway of the little model's
empty room. Martin ascended to the second floor.

There, in the front room, Mrs. Hughs was seen standing with the baby in
her arms beside the bed. She had a frightened and uncertain air. After
examining her wrist, and pronouncing it a scratch, Martin looked long at
the baby. The little creature's toes were stiffened against its mother's
waist, its eyes closed, its tiny fingers crisped against her breast.
While Mrs. Hughs poured forth her tale, Martin stood with his eyes still
fixed on the baby. It could not be gathered from his face what he was
thinking, but now and then he moved his jaw, as though he were suffering
from toothache. In truth, by the look of Mrs. Hughs and her baby, his
recipe did not seem to have achieved conspicuous success. He turned away
at last from the trembling, nerveless figure of the seamstress, and went
to the window. Two pale hyacinth plants stood on the inner edge; their
perfume penetrated through the other savours of the room--and very
strange they looked, those twin, starved children of the light and air.

"These are new," he said.

"Yes, sir," murmured Mrs. Hughs. "I brought them upstairs. I didn't
like to see the poor things left to die."

From the bitter accent of these words Martin understood that they had
been the little model's.

"Put them outside," he said; "they'll never live in here. They want
watering, too. Where are your