"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. I saw him first a few months ago at Mrs. I. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound. She knew that babies came from the womb; her womb had fallen out with her baby. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. “I heard nothing,” he declared, “and my ears are good. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered.
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