"Let's go down," suggested the bobby. "_I_ can make 'em understand." The ghost descended, dazed, and McAllister, the bobby, and last of all, the cabman, followed down a creaking ladder into a sort of vault under the cellar. A small oil wick gave out a feeble fluctuating light. On one side, cross-legged, sat a shrivelled-up, little old man, his brown beard streaked with gray, stitching. He did not look up, but only worked the faster. A thin woman crouched on a broken chair, holding a little girl in her lap. "There, there, Annie, don't cry. The bobby's not arter _you_. It's all right, darlin'!" Strewn about the cement floor lay the bolts of Lancaster which McAllister had selected, together with patterns, scissors, and unfinished garments. "Excuse the child, sir," apologized the woman. "She's just a bit sleepy." "Well," said McAllister, his indignation rising at the scene, and shame burning in his cheeks, "go right home. I won't have you working on these clothes any more." How he wished Pondel was there to get a piece of his mind! Jim looked wearily at Aggam. "Wot d'ye s'y, Aggam?" The other kept on stitching. "I gets my horders from Pondel," he replied, shortly, "an' I don't tyke no horders from no one helse!" "But look here," cried McAllister, "the clothes are _mine_, ain't they? Pondel hasn't anything to do with it! And _I_ tell you to _go home_." "Yes," grunted Aggam. "An' then you loses your job, does yer? I don't want no toff mixin' into _my_ affairs. I minds my business, they can mind theirs!" "I s'y, that's no w'y to speak to the gentleman!" exclaimed the bobby in disgust. "'E's only tryin' to do yer a fyvor! 'Aven't yer got no manners?" "_I_ minds _my_ business, let _'im_ mind _'is'n_!" repeated Aggam stolidly. "Well, _I_ must _s'y_," ejaculated the cabby, "they're a bloomin' grateful lot!" The tall man seemed to resent this last from one of his own station. "I appreciates wot the gent wants," he said weakly, "but it's just like Aggam s'ys. Wot can _we_ do? The gent cawn't tell us to go 'ome!" The child began to cry again. McAllister was exasperated almost to the point of profanity. "Don't you _want_ to go home?" he exclaimed. The woman laughed a hollow, mirthless laugh. "Annie an' me 'ave st'y'd 'ere all the evenin' just to be with Jim. 'E's awful sick. An' 'e'll 'ave to st'y 'ere all d'y to-morrer. Do we _want_ to go 'ome!" Her husband dashed his shirt-sleeve across his eyes. "Don't Nell," he muttered. "I ain't sick. I can work. You go 'ome with the kid." McAllister thrust a handful of bank-notes toward her. "Where does old Pondel live?" he inquired of the bobby. "Out in Kew somewheres," replied the officer. The woman was staring blankly at the money. Suddenly she dropped the little girl and began to sob. Jim broke into a fit of harsh coughing. The cabman climbed up the ladder. The temperature of the vault seemed insufferable to McAllister. "I suppose you'll go home if Pondel says so?" he suggested.