Now he heard it plainly--the whistle and fall of a whip, the terrified, frantic cries for mercy. He ran down the stairs in the dark and tapped at Mrs. Inglethorne’s door. From inside the room came a deep, heartbreaking sound of sobbing. “Who’s that?” asked Mrs. Inglethorne defiantly. “Go away and mind your own business!” “Open the door, or I’ll break it open!” cried Peter in a cold fury. “I’ll send for the police if you interfere with me!” yelled the woman. His answer was to throw his weight against the flimsy door. The catch broke with a snap, and he was in the foul bedroom. Elizabeth lay cowering on a filthy camp bed, clad only in a coarse nightdress. Her head was pillowed in the crook of her arm, and convulsive sobs shook the thin shoulders. Her face aflame, Mrs. Inglethorne stood at the foot of a big brass bedstead, one hand holding herself steady, the other grasping an old dog whip. “I’ll learn her to go talking about me!” she said thickly. “After all I’ve done for her!” There was another child there, a girl who was apparently the same age as Elizabeth. She, however, enjoyed the luxury of Mrs. Inglethorne’s ample bed and was so used to this exhibition of the woman’s wrath that she was asleep. “Where is your coat, Elizabeth?” asked Peter gently. The child looked up, her eyes swollen, her face red, and cast one fearful glance at her mother. “Watcher goin’ to do?” asked Mrs. Inglethorne unsteadily. “She will sleep in my room for the night,” replied Peter. “To-morrow I will make other arrangements for her, and if you give any trouble I shall send for the police.” Mrs. Inglethorne was amused in her way. “Send for the police!” she scoffed. “I like that! An old lag sending for the police! And they’ll come, won’t they?” “I think so,” said Peter quietly. “They will come, if only to discover why you never use the back room upstairs as a bedroom, why it is always kept locked, except after your visitors’ calls.” The smile died from the woman’s face. “As far as I’m concerned,” Peter went on, “you can ‘fence’ till the cows come home! But I’m not going to have you beating this child while I’m in the house. And when I’m out of it, and out of it for good, I’ll see that she is well looked after!” The woman’s face was mottled with fear. “Fence!” she spluttered. “I don’t know what you mean by that low word! If you mean I receive stolen property, then you’re a liar!” “Let me call the police and settle the matter,” said Peter. The threat sobered her. “I don’t want any police in my house. The kid annoyed me, and it’s a hard thing if a mother can’t cane her own children without being interfered with. If she wants to sleep upstairs, she can, but she’d be better off down here, Mr. Dawlish. You haven’t got any accommodation for a little gel.” This was true.