ou believe it, Mr.
Beecot, I know no more of the old man than you do. He's queer, and he's
wrong altogether, and that frightened of being alone in the dark as you
could make him a corp with a turnip lantern."

"What is he afraid of?"

"Ah," said Deborah, significantly, "what indeed? It may be police and it
may be ghosts, but, ghosts or police, he never ses what he oughter say
if he's a respectable man, which I sadly fear he ain't."

"He may have his reasons to--"

Miss Junk tossed her head and snorted again loudly. "Oh, yes--he has his
reasons," she admitted, "and Old Bailey ones they are, I dessay. But
there's somethin' 'anging over his head. Don't ask me what it is, fur
never shall you know, by reason of my being ignorant. But whatever it
is, Mr. Beecot, it's something wicked, and shall I see my own pretty in
trouble?"

"How do you know there will be trouble?" interrupted Paul, anxiously.

"I've heard him pray," said Miss Junk, mysteriously--"yes, you may look,
for there ain't no prayer in the crafty eye of him--but pray he do, and
asks to be kept from danger--"

"Danger?"

"Danger's the word, for I won't deceive you, no, not if you paid me
better wages than the old man do give and he's as near as the paring of
an inion. So I ses to Bart, if there's danger and trouble and Old
Baileys about, the sooner Miss Sylvia have some dear man to give her a
decent name and pertect her the more happy old Deborah will be. So I
looked and looked for what you might call a fairy prince as I've heard
tell of in pantomimes, and when you comes she loses her heart to you. So
I ses, find out, Bart, what he is, and--"

"Yes, yes, I see. Well, Deborah, you can depend upon my looking after
your pretty mistress. If I were only reconciled with my father I would
speak to Mr. Norman."

"Don't, sir--don't!" cried the woman, fiercely, and making a clutch at
Paul's arm; "he'll turn you out, he will, not being anxious fur anyone
to have my flower, though love her as he oughter do, he don't, no,"
cried Deborah, "nor her ma before her, who died with a starvin' 'eart.
But you run away with my sweetest and make her your own, though her pa
swears thunderbolts as you may say. Take her from this place of
wickedness and police-courts." And Deborah looked round the cellar with
a shudder. Suddenly she started and held up her finger, nodding towards
a narrow door at the side of the cellar. "Master's footstep," she said
in a harsh whisper. "I'd know