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 cellar--there's no help for it,” said John.