ouse, where we got her into some clothes,
and seeing that she was got right in her mind, I thought it would be a
good time to question her."

"If you will hasten the result of your search, it will, my good sir,
relieve my feelings much!" again interposes the lady, drawing her chair
nearer the detective.

"'You've had.' I says to her, 'a hard enough time in this world, and now
here's the man what's going to be a friend to ye--understand that!' says
I, and she looked at me bewildered. We gave her something to eat, and a
pledge that no one would harm her, and she tamed down, and began to look
up a bit. 'Your name wasn't always Munday?' says I, in a way that she
couldn't tell what I was after. She said she had taken several names,
but Munday was her right name. Then she corrected herself--she was weak
and hoarse--and said it was her husband's name. 'You've a good memory,
Mrs. Munday,' says I; 'now, just think as far back as you can, and tell
us where you lived as long back as you can think.' She shook her head,
and began to bury her face in her hands I tried for several minutes, but
could get nothing more out of her. Then she quickened up, shrieked out
that she had just got out of the devil's regions, and made a rush for
the door."

CHAPTER XLIII.

IN WHICH IS REVEALED THE ONE ERROR THAT BROUGHT SO MUCH SUFFERING UPON
MANY.

Mr. Fitzgerald sees that his last remark is having no very good effect
on Madame Montford, and hastens to qualify, ere it overcome her. "That,
I may say, Madame, was not the last of her. My wife and me, seeing how
her mind was going wrong again, got her in bed for the night, and took
what care of her we could. Well, you see, she got rational in the
morning, and, thinking it a chance, I 'plied a heap of kindness to her,
and got her to tell all she knew of herself. She went on to tell where
she lived--I followed your directions in questioning her--at the time
you noted down. She described the house exactly. I have been to it
to-night; knew it at a sight, from her description. Some few practical
questions I put to her about the child you wanted to get at, I found
frightened her so that she kept shut--for fear, I take it, that it was a
crime she may be punished for at some time. I says, 'You was trusted
with a child once, wasn't you?' 'The Lord forgive me,' she says, 'I know
I'm guilty--but I've been punished enough in this world haven't I?' And
she burst out into tears, and hung down her head