indow, and the prisoner applied. Accepted the young lady as tenant,
and had been duly paid her rent. Knew nothing of who she was or where
she came from. Couldn't even get her name. Had heard her call the baby
Paul. That was all she knew.

"Her occupation, my good woman, what was it?

"Nothing; she hadn't no occupation, your worship."

"Never went out? Not at night?"

"No, sir; leastways not at night, sir. I hopes your worship takes me for
an honest woman, sir."

"Did nothing for a living, and yet she paid you. Did you board her?"

"Yes, your worship; she could cook her wittles, but the poor young thing
seemed never to have heart for nothing, sir."

"Never talked to you?"

"No, sir; nothing but cried. She cried, and cried, and cried, 'cept when
she laughed, and then it were awful, your worship. My man always did say
as how there was no knowing what she'd be doing of yet."

"Is she married, do you know?"

"Yes, your worship; she wears her wedding-ring quite regular--only, once
she plucked it off and flung it in the fire--I saw it with my own eyes,
sir, or I mightn't ha' believed it; and I never did see the like--but
the poor creature's not responsible at whiles--that's what my husband
says."

"What was her behavior to the child? Did she seem fond of it?"

"Oh, yes, your worship; she used to hug, and hug, and hug it, and call
it her darling, and Paul, and Paul, and Paul, and all she had left in
the world."

"When did you see her last before to-day?"

"Yesterday, sir; she put on her bonnet and cape and drew a shawl around
the baby, and went out in the afternoon. 'It will do you a mort of
good,' says I to her; 'Yes, Mrs. Drayton,' says she, 'it will do us both
a world of good.' That was on the front doorsteps, your worship and it
was a nice afternoon, but I had never no idea what she meant to be doing
of; but she's not responsible, poor young thing, that's what my--"

"And when night came and she hadn't got home, did you go in search of
her?"

"Yes, your worship; for I says to my husband, says I, 'Poor young thing,
I can't rest in my bed, and knowing nothing of what's come to her.' And
my man, he says to me, 'Maggie,' he says, 'you go to the station and
give the officers her description,' he says--'a tall young woman as
might ha' been a lady, a-carrying a baby--- that'll be good enough,' he
says, and I went. And this morning the officer came, and I knew by his
face as something had happened, and--"

"Le