The young woman had gazed vacantly about her with an air of indifference. She seemed scarcely to realize that through the yellow vagueness the eyes of a hundred persons were centered on her haggard face. "Anybody here who knows her?" asked the bench. "Yes, your worship; I found out the old woman alonger she lodged." "Let us hear the old person." A woman in middle life--a little, confused, aimless, uncomfortable body--stepped into the box. She answered to the name of Drayton. Her husband was a hotel porter. She had a house in Pimlico. A month ago one of her rooms on the first floor back had been to let. She put a card in her window, 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?"