“Know her? know her?” returned Corson in a tone scornful of doubt on such a point. “Do I know the slickest crook in San Francisco? Ah, it's many a story I could tell you, Mr. Wilton, of the way that ould she-divil has slipped through our fingers when we thought our hands were on her throat. And it's many of her brood we have put safe in San Quentin.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said I dryly. “But the woman has done me a service--saved my life, I may say--and I'm willing to forget the bad in her.” “That's not for me to say, sor; but there's quare things happens, no doubt.” “This note,” I continued, “is written over her name. I don't know whether it came from her, or not; but if she sent it I must see her. It may be a case of life or death for me.” “An' if it didn't come from her?” asked the policeman shrewdly. “Then,” said I grimly, “it's likely to be a case of death if I venture alone.” “I'll tell you what, Mr. Wilton,” said Corson after a pause. “If you'll wait a bit, I'll go with you--that is, if there isn't somebody else you'd like better to have by your side to-night. You don't look to have any of your friends about.” “Just the thing,” I said heartily. “There's no one I'd rather have. We'll go down as soon as we can get a bite to eat.” “I'll have to wait a bit, sor, till my relief comes. He'll be along soon. As for getting a bite, you can't do better than wait till you get to Mother Borton's. It's a rough place, but it's got a name for good cooking.” I was bewildered. “I guess there's not much to be got in the way of eating in the house. There was nothing left in it yesterday morning but the rats.” I spoke with considerable emphasis. “That's square, now,” he said, looking to see if there was a jest behind the words. “But 'twas all there when McPherson and I put a club to a drunk as was raising the Ould Nick in the place and smashing the bottles, not six hours ago. When we took him away in the ixpriss wagon the ould woman was rowling out those long black curses in a way that would warm the heart of the foul fiend himself.” There was some fresh mystery about this. I held my tongue with the reflection that I had better let it straighten itself out than risk a stumble by asking about things I ought to know. Corson's relief soon appeared. “It's a nasty night,” he said, buttoning up his overcoat closely, as Corson gave him a brief report of the situation on the beat. “It's good for them as likes it dark,” said Corson. “It's just such a night as we had when Donaldson was murdered. Do you mind it?” “Do I mind it? Am I likely to forgit it? Well, a pleasant time to you, me boy. Come along, sor. We'd better be moving. You won't mind stepping up to the hall with me, will ye, while I report?” “Certainly not,” I said with a shiver, half at the grim suggestion of murder and half at the chill of the fog and the cutting wind that blew the cold vapor through to the skin.