“This gin,” says Mr. Fitzgerald, turning methodically to Brother Spyke, “they make do for food and clothing. We used to call this the devil’s paradise. As to Krone, we used to call him the devil’s bar-tender. These ragged revellers, you see, beg and steal during the day, and get gin with it at night. Krone thinks nothing of it! Lord bless your soul, sir! why, this man is reckoned a tip-top politician; on an emergency he can turn up such a lot of votes!” Mr. Fitzgerald, approaching Mr. Krone, says “you’re a pretty fellow. Keeping such a place as this!” The detective playfully strikes the hat of the other, crowding it over his eyes, and inquiring if he has seen Tom Toddleworth during the day. Mr. Toddleworth was not seen during the day. No one in the bottomless pit knows where he may be found. A dozen husky voices are heard to say, he has no home-stores himself away anywhere, and may be found everywhere. Brother Spyke bows, and sighs. Mr. Fitzgerald says: “he is always harmless-this Toddleworth.” As the two searchers are about to withdraw, the shrunken figure of a woman rushes wildly into the pit. “Devils! devils!—hideous devils of darkness! here you are-still hover-hover-hovering; turning midnight into revelling, day into horrid dreaming!” she shrieks at the top of her voice. Now she pauses suddenly, and with a demoniacal laugh sets her dull, glassy eyes on Mr. Krone, then walks round him with clenched fists and threatening gestures. The politician-maker sits unmoved. Now she throws her hair about her bare breasts, turns her eyes upward, imploringly, and approaches Brother Spyke, with hand extended. Her tale of sorrow and suffering is written in her very look. “She won’t hurt you-never harms anybody;” says Mr. Fitzgerald, methodically, observing Brother Spyke’s timidity. “No, no, no,” she mutters incoherently, “you are not of this place-you know, like the rich world up-town, little of these revelling devils. Cling! yes, cling to the wise one-tell him to keep you from this, and forever be your teacher. Tell him! tell him! oh! tell him!” She wrings her hands, and having sailed as it were into the further end of the pit, vaults back, and commences a series of wild gyrations round Mr. Krone. “Poor wretch!” says Brother Spyke, complacently, “the gin has dried up her senses-made her what she is.”