.

"It's not right of you to live this way," returns the detective,
continuing to survey the prostrate forms of Mrs. Murphy, her three
sisters, and the two fair-haired English girls, and the besotted beings
they claim as husbands. Alarm is pictured in every countenance. A
browned face withdraws under a dingy coverlid, an anxious face peers
from out a pallet on the floor, a prostrate figure in the corner
inquires the object of Mr. Detective Fitzgerald's visit--and Mrs.
Murphy, holding it more becoming of respectable society, leaves the bed
in which she had accommodated five others, and gets into one she calls
her own. A second thought, and she makes up her mind not to get into
bed, but to ask Mr. Fitzgerald if he will be good enough, when next he
meets his Onher, the Mayor, just to say to him how Mr. Krone is bringing
disgrace upon the house and every one in it, by letting rooms to
negroes. Here she commences pouring out her pent-up wrath upon the head
of Mr. Krone, and the colored gentleman, whom she declares has a dozen
white females in his room every night. The detective encourages her by
saying it is not right of Mr. Krone, who looks more at the color of his
money than the skin of his tenants. "To come of a dacint family--and be
brought to this!" says Mrs. Murphy, allowing her passion to rise, and
swearing to have revenge of the negro in the next room.

"You drink this gin, yet--I have warned you against it," interposes the
detective, pointing to some bottles on the bureau. "Faith, an' it's the
gin gets a many of us," returns the woman, curtly, as she gathers about
her the skirts of her garments. "Onyhow, yerself wouldn't deprive us of
a drop now and then, jist to keep up the spirits." The detective shakes
his head, then discloses to them the object of his search, adding, in
parenthesis, that he does not think Mr. Toddleworth is the thief. A
dozen tongues are ready to confirm the detective's belief. "Not a
shillin' of it did the poor crature take--indeed he didn't, now, Mr.
Fitzgerald. 'Onor's 'onor, all over the wurld!" says Mrs. Murphy,
grasping the detective by the hand. "Stay till I tell ye all about it.
Mary Maguire--indeed an' ye knows her, Mr. Fitzgerald--this same
afternoon looked in to say--'how do ye do, Mrs. Murphy. See this! Mrs.
Murphy,' says she, 'an' the divil a sich a pocket of money I'd see
before, as she held in her right hand, jist. 'Long life to ye, Mary,'
says I. 'We'll have a pint, Mrs. Murphy,