I spoke with her for some time, going over many points in her history already partly known to me, but I found that she would not breathe one word against the man. She would not admit that in a fit of passion he had thrown her into the river, or that she owed to that immersion her present feeble condition. She would not listen with patience to one slighting expression or word of demur; her whole soul was wrapped up in him; and no tender, pure-souled mother could have yearned over her child more eagerly than she did over the man whose very name I could scarcely utter with patience. When she was gone I drew a long breath, and mentally wished that I might get my clutches on Smeaton firmly enough to treat him to a good long sentence of penal servitude. I felt as if that would relieve my mind a bit. A day or two later I came on Dinah and her companion, and took them without trouble, but they had not an article about them which could connect them with the robbery at Dinah’s last place. After a short detention they were released, and I hoped that they would take fright and leave the city. During my short acquaintance with Dinah, it struck me that she was a great deal worse than her companion. “She is of the stuff that jail birds are made of, and a bad one at that,” was my reflection, and I remember thinking that it would certainly not be long before I heard of her again, supposing they favoured the city much longer with their presence. I saw them occasionally after that, and noted the general decay in their appearance, and guessed at their means of living, but never managed to get near them. One evening I was surprised by a visit from Dinah at the Central. She looked savage and sullen—a perfect fiend. “You want to take Will Smeaton?” she abruptly began. “I know you do, for you’ve been after him often enough.” “I would rather take you,” was my cold reply, and I spoke the truth. She affected to take the remark as a joke, and laughed savagely—having the merriment all to herself. Then she revealed her message. Smeaton and another were to break into a shop in the New Town by getting through a hatch, creeping along the roof, and thence descending through an unoccupied flat, and so reaching the workrooms and shop. “You’ve quarrelled with him, and this is your revenge, I suppose?” was my remark when she had finished, but Dinah’s reply cannot be written down. My only regret at the moment was that I could not warn Smeaton of his danger. Dinah went back and had dinner and supper with the man she had betrayed—actually broke bread with him and smiled in his face, and appeared more loving than she had showed herself for weeks. A woman, when good, can be holier, purer, and more strong in her devotion and love than a man; but when she is bad, the depths of iniquity which she can reach have never been touched by mortal man.