“Do you really believe, George,” said the lawyer one morning after Tom’s sentence had been passed upon him and he had been sent up for a number of years, “that this young sailor took these gems?” “I only know,” responded the smooth villain, “as much about the case as you. I do not worry about strangers.” “Was this young man not a boy brought up with you?” “Yes.” “Then, he is not a stranger to you.” “Well, he is no blood relation, and I am not being put through the third degree, am I?” The lawyer went out with the firm conviction that this young man, with his handsome eyes, knew more about this plot of the diamond theft than he cared to admit. George Benson threw himself out of the room with an impatient gesture. “I’ll be glad when the old man is dead,” muttered he as he swung off up the avenue, “for he has such a set of inquisitors about him that they drive me out of my senses.” * * * * * When poor Annie staggered out of the pawnshop with her pretty bauble in her fingers she ran into another woman hurrying along. “Why, you poor darling,” said the warm-hearted newcomer; “you ain’t about this kind of a day, and no warm clothes on? Now, be a good girl and come back home with me. Where have you bin?” “I’ve been trying to pawn this trinket, but he told me that it wasn’t worth over two dollars. And I know better, for my father gave it to me. Oh, Biddy Roan, if the time ever comes that I can repay you and Mrs. Higgins for your kindness to me, then will I come back and make you comfortable. But now I am going away.” She turned and made her way toward the other street swiftly, and would not listen to the strong Irish voice that commanded her to return. She walked hastily along until she came to Broadway and took this thoroughfare down and seemed bent upon making a certain point before the turning of the night, but fate seemed to have overtaken this poor woman, and with her heart beating and her lips praying for her father’s forgiveness she swept on, dragging the whining child through the now shadowy streets. “Oh, mother, I am so tired,” cried the child. “I know you are, dear little Helen, but be a good girl. We are going to see grandpa.” “Is he the grandpa that wouldn’t let us in his house?” asked Helen, this time hugging closer to her mother, for the night’s shades brought the chill winds from the sea. “He did not know, love, how badly we wanted to see him, I am sure, or he would not have turned us away. Now listen, dearest, and you shall have enough to eat before long.” This was every word true, but, little Helen Standish, it would not be in your grandfather’s mansion that you would eat, but in the awfulness of a prison house. The poor exhausted mother, tired and weary, was swept from the street into the gutter by a heavy truck, and when they picked her up stunned, the policeman said that she was drunk, and she was sent to the Island for three months.