It was on a Saturday morning that John Storm received Glory’s letter, and on the evening of the same day he set out in search of Mrs. Jupe’s.  The place was not easy to find, and when he discovered it at length he felt a pang at the thought that Glory herself had lived in this dingy burrowing.  As he was going up to the door of the little tobacco shop a raucous voice within was saying, “That’s what’s doo on the byeby, and till you can py up you needn’t be a-kemmin’ ’ere no more.”  At the next moment a young woman crossed him on the threshold.  She was a little slender thing, looking like a flower that has been broken by the wet.  He recognised her as the girl who had nursed the baby in Cook Lane on the day of his first visit to Soho.  She was crying, and to hide her swollen eyes she dropped her head at passing, and he saw her faded ribbons and soiled straw hat.

A woman of middle age behind the counter was curtsying to his clerical attire, and a little girl at the door of an inner room was looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, with head aslant.

“Father Storm, I think, sir.  Come in and set you down, sir.Mind the shop, Booboo.My ’usband ’as told me about ye, sir.  ’You’ll know ’im at onct, Lidjer,’ ’e sez, siz ’e.No, ’e ain’t ’ome from the club yet, but ‘e might be a-kemmin’ in any time now, sir.”

John Storm had seated himself in the little dark parlour, and was looking round and thinking of Glory.  “No matter; my business is with you, Mrs. Jupe,” he answered, and at that the twinkling eyes and fat cheeks, which had been doing their best to smile, took on a look of fear.

“Wot’s the metter?” she asked, and she closed the door to the shop.

“Nothing, I trust, my good woman,” and then he explained his errand.

Mrs. Jupe listened attentively and seemed to be asking herself who had sent him.

“The poor young mother is dead now, as you may know, and ”

“But the father ain’t,” said the woman sharply, “and, begging your parding, sir, if ’e wants ter know where the byeby is ’e can come ’isself and not send sembody else!”

“If the child is well, my good woman, and well cared for ”

“It is well keered for, and it’s gorn to a pusson I can trust.”

“Then what have you got to conceal?  Tell me where it is, and ”

“Not me!  If it’s ’is child, and ’e wants it, let ’im py for it, and interest ep ter dite.  Them swells is too fond of gettin’ parsons to pull their chestnuts out o’ the fire.”

“If you suppose I am here in the interests of the father, you are mistaken, I do assure you.”

“Ow, you do, do yer?”

Matters had reached this pass when the door opened and Mr. Jupe came in.  Off went his hat with a respectful salutation, but seeing the cloud on his wife’s face, he abridged his greeting.  The woman’s apron was at her eyes in an instant.

“Wot’s gowin’ on?” he asked.  John Storm tried to explain, but the woman contented herself with crying.

“Well, it’s like this, don’cher see, Father.  My missis is that fond of childring, and it brikes ’er ’eart ”

Was the man a fool or a hypocrite?

“Mr. Jupe,” said John, rising, “I’m afraid your wife has been carrying on an improper and illegal business.”

“Now stou thet, sir,” said the man, wagging his head.  “I respects the Reverend Jawn Storm a good deal, but I respects Mrs. Lidjer Jupe a good deal more, and when it comes to improper and illegal bizniss ”

“Down’t mind ’im, ’Enery,” said the wife, now weeping audibly.

“And down’t you tyke on so, Lidjer,” said the husband, and they looked as if they were about to embrace.

John Storm could stand no more.  Going down the court he was thinking with a pang of Glorythat she had lived months in the atmosphere of that impostorwhen somebody touched his arm in the darkness.  It was the girl.  She was still crying.

“I reckerlec’ seeing you in Crook Lane, sir, the day we christened my byeby, and I waited, thinking p’raps you could help me.”

“Come this way,” said John, and walking by his side along the blank wall of Lincoln’s Inn Fields, the girl told her story.  She lived in one room of the clergy-house at the back of his church.  Having to earn her living, she had answered an advertisement in a Sunday paper, and Mrs. Jupe had taken her baby to nurse.  It was true she had given up all claim to the child, but she could not help going to see itthe little one’s ways were so engaging.  Then she found that Mrs. Jupe had let it out to somebody else.  Only for her “friend” she might never have heard of it again.  He had found it by accident at a house in Westminster.  It was a fearful place, where men went for gambling.  The man who kept it had just been released from eighteen months’ imprisonment, and the wife had taken to nursing while the husband was in prison.  She was a frightful woman, and he was a shocking man, and “they knocked the children about cruel.”  The neighbours heard screams and slaps and moans, and they were always crying “Shame!” She had wanted to take her own baby away, but the woman would not give it up because there were three weeks’ board owing, and she could not pay.

“Could you take me to this house, my child?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then come round to the church after service to-morrow night.”

The girl’s tearful face glistened like April sunshine.

“And will you help me to get my little girl?  Oh, how good you are!  Everybody is saying what a Father it is that’s come to ” She stopped, then said quite soberly:  “I’ll get somebody to lend me a shawl to bring ’er ’ome in.  People say they pawn everything, and perhaps the beautiful white perlice I bought for ’er...  Oh, I’ll never let ’er out of my sight again, never!”

“What is your name, my girl?”

“Agatha Jones,” the girl answered.

It was nearly eleven o’clock on Sunday night before they were ready to start on their errand.  Meantime Aggie had done two turns at the foreign clubs, and John Storm had led a procession through Crown Street and been hit by a missile thrown by a “Skeleton,” whom he declined to give in charge.  At the corner of the alley he stopped to ask Mrs. Pincher to wait up for him, and the girl’s large eyes caught sight of the patch of plaster above his temple.

“Are you sure you want to go, sir?” she said.

“There’s no time to lose,” he answered.  The bloodhound was with him; he had sent home for it since the attempted riot.

As they walked toward Westminster she told him where she had been, and what money she had earned.  It was ten shillings, and that would buy so many things for baby.

“To-morrow I’ll get a cot for herone of those wicker ones; iron is so expensive.  She’ll want a pair o’ socks too, and by-and-bye she’ll ’ave to be shortened.”

John Storm was thinking of Glory.  He seemed to be retreading the steps of her life in London.  The dog kept close at his heels.

“She’ll ’a bin a month away now, a month to-morrow.  I wonder if she’s grow’d muchI wonder!  It’s wrong of people letting their childring go away from them.  I’ll never go out at nights againnot if I ’ave to tyke in sewin’ for the slop shops.  See this?” laughing nervously and showing a shawl that hung on her arm.  “It’s to bring ’er ’ome inthe nights is so chill for a byeby.”

John’s heart was heavy at sight of these little preparations, but the young mother’s face was radiant.

As they went by the Abbey, under its forest of scaffolding, and, walking toward Millbank, dipped into the slums, that lie in the shadow of the dark prison, they passed soldiers from the neighbouring barracks going arm-in-arm with girls, and this made Aggie talk of her “friend,” and cry a little, saying it was a week since she had seen him, and she was afraid he must have ’listed.  She knew he was rude to people sometimes, and she asked pardon for him, but he wasn’t such a bad boy, after all, and he never knocked you about except when he was drinking.

The house they were going to was in Angel Court, and having its door only to the front, it was partly sheltered from observation.  A group of women with their aprons over their heads stood talking in whispers at the corner.  One of them recognised Aggie and asked if she had got her child yet, whereupon John stopped and made some inquiries.  The goings-on at the house were scandalous.  The men who went to it were the lowest of the low, and there was scarcely one of them who hadn’t “done time.”  The man’s name was Sharkey, and his wife was as bad as he was.  She insured the children at seven pounds apiece, and “Lawd love ye, sir, at that price the poor things is worth more dead nor alive!”

Aggie’s face was becoming white, and she was touching John Storm’s elbow as if pleading with him to come away, but he asked further questions.  Yes, there were several children.  A twelve-months’ baby, a boy, was fretful with his teething, and on Sunday nights, when the woman was wanted downstairs, she just put the poor darling to bed and locked the room.  If you lived next door, you could hear his crying through the wall.

“Agatha,” said John, as they stepped up to the door, “get us both into this house as best you can, then leave the rest to me.Don, lie close!”

Aggie tapped at the door.  A little slide in it was run back and a voice said, “Who’s there?”

“Aggie,” the girl answered.

“Who’s that with you?”

“A friend of Charlie’s,” and then the door was opened.

John crossed the threshold first, the dog followed him, the girl entered last.  When the door had closed behind them, the doorkeeper, a young man holding a candle in his hand, was staring at John with his whole face open.

“Hush!  Not a word!Don, watch that man!”

The young man looked at the dog and turned pale.

“Where is Mrs. Sharkey?”

“Downstairs, sir.”

There were sounds of men’s voices from below, and from above there came the convulsive sobs of a child, deadened as by a door between.

“Give me your candle.”

The man gave it.

“Don’t speak or stir, or else ”

John glanced at the dog, and the man trembled.

“Come upstairs, child,” and the girl followed him to the upper floor.

On reaching the room in which the baby was crying they tried the door.  It was locked.  John attempted to force it, but it would not yield.  The child’s sobs were dying down to a sleepy moan.

Another room stood open and they went in.  It was the living-room.  A kettle on the fire was singing and puffing steam.  There was no sign of a key anywhere.  Only a table, some chairs, a disordered sofa, certain sporting newspapers lying about, and a few pictures on the walls.  Some of the pictures were of race-horses, but all the rest were memorial cards, and one bore the text, “He shall gather them in his arms.”  Aggie was shuddering as with cold, being chilled by some unknown fear.

“We must go down to the cellarthere’s no help for it,” said John.

The man in the hall had not spoken or stirred.  He was still gazing in terror on the bloodshot eyes looking out of the darkness.  John gave the candle to the girl and began to go noiselessly downstairs.  There was not a movement in the house now.  Big Ben was striking.  It was twelve o’clock.

At the next moment John Storm was midway down, and had full view of the den.  It was a washing cellar with a coal vault going out of it under the street.  Some fifteen or twenty men, chiefly foreigners, were gathered about a large table covered with green baize, on which a small lamp was burning.  A few of the men were seated on chairs ranged about, the others were standing at the back in rows two deep.  They were gambling.  The game was faro.  Rows of lucifer matches were laid on the table, half-crowns were staked on them, and cards were cut and dealt.  Except the banker, a middle-aged man with the wild eye of the hard spirit-drinker, everybody had his face turned away from the cellar stairs.

They did not smoke or drink, and they only spoke to each other when the stakes were being received or paid.  Then they quarrelled and swore in English.  After that there was a chilling and hideous silence, as if something awful were about to occur.  The lamp cast a strong light on the table, but the rest of the room was darkened by patches of shadow.

The coal vault had been turned into a drinking-bar, and behind the counter there was a well-stocked stillage.  In the depths of its shade a woman sat knitting.  She had a gross red and white face, and in the arch above her was the iron grid in the pavement.  Somebody on the street walked over it, causing a hollow sound as of soil falling on a coffin.

John Storm was no coward, but a certain tremor passed over him on finding himself in this subterranean lurking-place of men who were as beasts.  He stood a full minute unseen.  Then he heard the woman say in a low hiss, “Cat’s mee-e-et!” and he knew he had been observed.  The men turned and looked at him, not suddenly, or all at once, but furtively, cautiously, slowly.  The banker crouched at the table with an astonished face and tried to smuggle the cards out of sight.

John stood calmly, his whole figure displaying courage and confidence.  The group of men broke up.  “He’s got the ‘coppers,’” said one.  Nobody else spoke, and they began to melt away.  They disappeared through a door at the back which led into a yard, for, like rats, the human vermin always have a second way out of their holes.

In half a minute the cellar was nearly empty.  Only the banker and the woman and one young man remained.  The young man was Charlie.

“What cheer, myte?” he said with an air of unconcern.  “Is it trecks ye want, sir?  Here ye are then,” and he threw a pack of cards at John’s feet.

“It’s that gel o’ yawn that’s done this,” said the woman.

“So it’s a got-up thing, is it?” said Charlie, and stepping to the counter, he took up a drinking-glass, broke it at the rim; and holding its jagged edges outward, turned to use it as a weapon.

John Storm had not yet spoken, but a magnetic instinct warned him.  He whistled, and the dog bounded down.  The young man threw his broken glass on the floor and cried to the keeper of the house:  “Don’t stir, you!  First you know, the beast will be at yer throat!”

Hearing Charlie’s voice, Aggie was creeping down the stairs.  “Charlie!” she cried.  Charlie threw open his coat, stuck his fingers in the armholes of his waistcoat, said in a voice of hatred, passion, and rage, “Go and pawn yourself!” and then swaggered out at the back door.  The keeper made show of following, but John Storm called on him to stop.  The man looked at the dog and obeyed.  “Wot d’ye want o’ me?” he said.

“I want this girl’s baby.  That’s the first thing I want.  I’ll tell you the rest afterward.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” The man’s grimace was frightful.

“It’s gone, sir.  We’ve lost it,” said the woman, with a hideous expression.

“That story will not pass with me, my good woman.  Go upstairs and unlock the door!  You too, my man, go on!”

A minute later they were in a bedroom above.  Three neglected children lay asleep on bundles of rags.  One of twelve months’ old was in a wicker cradle, one of three years was in a wooden cot, and a younger child was in a bed.  Aggie had come up behind, and stood by the door trembling and weeping.

“Now, my girl, find your baby,” said John, and the young mother hurried with eager eyes from the cradle to the cot and from the cot to the bed.

“Yes, here it is,” she cried.  “Nooh no, no!” and she began to wring her hands.

“Told yer so,” said the woman, and with a wicked grin she pointed to a memorial card which hung on the wall.

Aggie’s child was dead and buried.  Diarrhoea!  The doctor at the dispensary had given a certificate of death, and Charlie had shared the insurance money.  “Wish to Christ it was ended!” he had said.  He had been drunk ever since.

The poor girl was stunned.  She was no longer crying.  “Oh, oh, oh!  What shall I do?” she said.

“Who’s child is this?” said John, standing over the wicker cradle.  The little sufferer from inflamed gums had sobbed itself to sleep.

“A real laidy’s,” said the woman.  “Mrs. Jupe told us to tyke great kear of it.  The father is Lord something.”

“My poor girl,” said John, turning to Aggie, “could you carry this child home for me?”

“Oh, oh, oh!” said the girl, but she wrapped the shawl about the child and lifted it up sleeping.

“Now, you down’t!” said the man, putting himself on guard before the door.  “That child is worth ’undrids of pounds to me, and ”

“Stand back, you brute!” said John, and with the girl and her burden he passed out of the house.

The front door stood open and the neighbourhood had been raised.  Trollopy women in their under-petticoats and with their hair hanging about their necks were gathered at the end of the court.  Aggie was crying again, and John pushed through the crowd without speaking.

They went back by Broad Sanctuary, where a solitary policeman was pacing to and fro on the echoing pavement.  Big Ben was chiming the half-hour after midnight.  The child coughed like a sheep constantly, and Aggie kept saying, “Oh, oh, oh!”

Mrs. Pincher, in her widow’s cap and white apron, was waiting up for them, and John committed the child to her keeping.  Then he said to Aggie, who was turning away, “My poor child, you have suffered deeply, but if you will leave this man I will help you to begin life again, and if you want money I will find it.”

“Well, he is a Father and no mistake!” said Mrs. Pincher; but the girl only answered in a hopeless voice, “I don’t want no money, and I don’t want to begin life again.”

As she crossed the court to her room in the tenement house they heard her “Oh, oh, oh!”

Before going to bed that night John Storm wrote to Glory: 

“Hurrah!  Have got poor Polly’s baby, so you may set your heart at ease about it.  All the days of my life I have been thought to be a dreamer, but it is surprising what a man can do when he sets to work for somebody else!  Your former landlady turns out to be the wife of my ‘organ man,’ and it was pitiful to see the dear old simpleton’s devotion to his bogus little baggage.  I have lost him, of course, but that was unavoidable.

“It was by help of another victim that I traced the child at last.  She is a ballet girl of some sort, and it was as much as I could stand to see the poor young thing carrying Polly’s baby, her own being dead and buried without a word said to her.  Short of the grace of God she will go to the bad now.  Oh, when will the world see that in dealing with the starved hearts of these poor fallen creatures God Almighty knows best how to do his own business?  Keep the child with the mother, foster the maternal instinct, and you build up the best womanhood.  Drag them apart, and the child goes to the dogs and the mother to the devil.

“But Polly’s baby is safely lodged with Mrs. Pincher, a dear old grandmotherly soul who will love it like her own, and all the way home I have been making up my mind to start baby-farming myself on fresh lines.  He who wrongs the child commits a crime against the State.  However low a woman has fallen, she is a subject of the Crown, and if she is a mother she is the Crown’s creditor.  These are my first principles, the application will come anon.  Meantime you have given me a new career, a glorious mission!  Thank God and Glory Quayle for it for ever and ever!  Thenwho knows?perhaps you will come back and take it up yourself some day.  When I think of the precious time I spent, in that monastery... but no, only for that I should not be here.

“Oh, life is wonderful!  But I feel afraid that I shall wake upperhaps in the streets somewhereand find I have been dreaming.  Deeply grieved to hear of the grandfather’s attack.  Trust it has passed.  But if not, certain I am that all is well with him and that he is staid only on God.

“Hope you are well and plodding through this wilderness in comfort, avoiding the thorns as well as you can.  Glenfaba may be dull, but you do well to keep out of the whirlpool of London for the present.  Yours is a snug spot, and when storms are blowing even the sea-gulls shelter about your house, I remember...  But why Rosa?  Is Peel the only place for a summer holiday?”