She knew the character of those whom she had left behind. She felt
certain that if she betrayed them to the police she would be put out
of the way.

Nor was this fear at all unreasonable. Without her recent terrible
experience she would have been fully aware of the danger that attended
a too loquacious tongue. The question of putting this one or that one
"out of the way" had frequently been discussed openly and seriously at
the Rendez-Vous pour Cochers. A word from her now would send the
police down on that resort. Just a little while ago she was nervous
and unstrung, but, while she had at first formed the intention of
bringing le Cochon to book, the very first question brought her face
to face with the consequences. The second query increased her
obstinacy. The peremptory command to speak out left her mute. By
saying nothing she could compromise nobody.

"Only a street waif," suggested the doctor,--"probably has no home."

Fouchette, who had now risen to a sitting posture, nodded vivaciously.

"Then why didn't you say so?" growled the police agent. "Have you any
parents?"

"No."

"Whom were you living with, and where?"

"Nowhere."

"Now, again,--what is your name?"

Silence.

"Why don't you answer?"

"Because it's none of your business," snapped Fouchette.

"We'll see about that before the Commissaire," retorted the agent.
"He'll take the sulk out of you."

"Hold on," put in the bargewoman; "don't be harsh with her, monsieur.
She has been abused dreadfully. Her body is covered with bruises."

"So much more reason we should find out who did it,--who has attempted
to murder the child into the bargain."

"She has been cruelly beaten."

Fouchette nodded.

"I'll have to take you to the Commissariat, my child."

"I don't care where you take me,--that is, if Tartar goes along."

The dog regarded her inquiringly.

"Certainly," responded the agent,--"Tartar is a part of the case.
Allons!"

He would have picked her up in his powerful arms, but she rebelled
vigorously, protesting that she could walk.

"Very well. Good! You're a plucky one. You're the right stuff."

The little official party--the agent, Fouchette, Tartar, a waterman
carrying the basket, the stout bargewoman bearing the child's wet
clothing--took up the march, followed by several idlers in search of
sensation.

Having arrived at the Commissariat, it was necessary to await the hour
when it pleased Monsieur le Commissaire to put in