“The woman is a fence,” he said, “not in a very big way. I think she specializes in furs and silk lengths.” She knew something of the genus fence, but he told her what he had learned in Dartmoor, of fences who visited the scene of prospective robberies and priced the loot, practically paying for it, before it was stolen; of skillful men and women who would stand outside a small jeweller’s shop and with one comprehensive glance assess the thieving value of the whole. He told her of “dead” stores--stores which were locked up at night, where nobody lived on the premises, and of “live” stores, where there was either a watchman or a proprietor and his family sleeping on the floors above. “I am not reporting this officially--I mean the fence part of it--but the child is ill-used. The other little kids get a whacking now and again, but I should think she gets hers all the time.” “What do you wish me to do?” she asked, looking up at him. “I don’t know.” He had a sense of awkwardness. “I had a wild idea that possibly you might be able to find--to do something with her.” “You mean take charge of her?” She was smiling at him. “Yes, I suppose I did mean that,” he said after a second’s thought. “It sounds fantastic and impossible now, but Elizabeth has got a grip on me. Probably it is my own rather unhappy childhood which is responding to her wretchedness.” She laughed. “I’ll make your mind easy, at any rate,” she said. “I had already considered the possibility. In fact, I discussed the matter with Lucretia last night before I went out to dinner, and Lucretia was wildly enthusiastic. I have a spare room here; she could go to the Catholic school in Leicester Square. The only point is that we get Mrs. Inglethorne’s consent.” “She had better,” he said grimly, and her lips twitched. “Really, you’re almost ferocious when you’re taking up the causes of other people,” she said. “I wish you’d be a little energetic in your own.” “Aren’t I?” She shook her head. “Not very,” she answered, in her quiet way. “Why don’t you see your mother?” He grinned. “She saved me the trouble and came last night.” “To Severall Street?” she asked in astonishment, and when he nodded: “Was it--a pleasant--encounter?” “A normally strained interview,” he answered cheerfully. “She endeavoured to instill in me a passion for agriculture, and Canadian agriculture at that. I love Canada. You can’t even take a week-end trip into Canada without loving it. But the prospect of milking cows in Saskatchewan didn’t appeal.” “She wanted you to go abroad? Why?” He shrugged his shoulders. “I suppose she rather feels there isn’t room enough for both of us in London.” She thought the matter over for a minute. “Didn’t your father leave you any money?” “He cut me off without the proverbial shilling.” The lightness of his tone, she suspected, was assumed. Coldwell had told her how much Peter had loved his father.