The stranger laughed harshly. "It's hard to say when ye're well off," he growled. "Up one day and down the other. You never know your luck." Away he went, southward. His long vigil on the pavement near the railings seemed to have ended. In Piccadilly he took an omnibus to the Circus, and there changed to another for the Elephant and Castle. He walked rapidly through the congeries of mean streets which lie to the east of that bustling center, and paused at last before a house which was occupied by respectable people, judging by the cleanly curtains and general air of tidiness. He knocked. A woman appeared. Did Mrs. Mason live there? No. She knew nothing of her. Had only been in the place eighteen months. The man evidently appreciated the migratory habits of the poor too well to dream of prosecuting further inquiries among the neighbors. He strolled about, reading the names over the small shops, the corner public house, the dressmakers' semiprivate residences. At last he paused before a somewhat grim establishment, an undertaker's office. He entered. A youth was whistling the latest music hall song. "Do you know anything of a Mrs. Mason, who used to live in this locality about ten years ago?" he asked. "Mrs. Mason? There may be forty Mrs. Masons. What was her Christian name an' address?" "Mrs. Hannah Mason, 14 Frederick Street." The youth skillfully tilted back his stool until he reached a ledger from a shelf behind him. He ran his eye down an index, found a number, and pulled out another book. "We buried her on the twentieth of November, nine years since," he said, coolly, rattling both tomes back into their places. "You did, eh? Is there anybody here who remembers her?" Something in the husky voice of this stark, ill-favored man caused the boy to become less pert. "Father's in," he said. "I'll ring for him." Father came. He had a vague memory of the woman, a widow with two children--boys, he thought. Somebody helped her in her last days, and paid for the funeral--paid cash, according to the ledger. He did not know who the friend was, nor had he any knowledge of the children's fate. Workhouse, most probably. What workhouse? Parish of Southwark. Easy to find. Just turn so-and-so, and so-and-so. With a grunt of acknowledgment the inquirer passed into the street. He gave an eye to the public house, but resolutely quickened his pace. At the workhouse he succeeded, with some difficulty, in interviewing the master. It was after office hours, but as he had journeyed a long way an exception would be made in his case. Books were consulted to ascertain the fate of two boys, John and William Mason, who would now be aged twenty and eighteen respectively. Youthful Masons had certainly been in the schools--one was there at the moment, in fact--but none of them answered to the descriptions supplied. The workhouse master was sorry; the records gave no clew.