284 MARTIN RATTLER.

“T think, sir,” said the man on entering, “ that
we've got scent of an old woman w’ich is as like the
one that you're arter as hanythink.”

Martin rose in haste. “Have you, my man? Are
you sure ?”

“Bout as sure as a man can be who never seed her.
But it won't take you long to walk. Youd better
come and see for yourself.”

Without uttering another word, Martin put on his
hat and followed the policeman. They passed through
several streets and lanes, and at length came to one
of the poorest districts of the city, not far distant
from the shipping. Turning down a narrow alley,
and crossing a low, dirty-looking court, Martin’s guide
stopped before a door, which he pushed open, and
mounted by a flight of rickety wooden stairs to a
garret. He opened the door and entered.

“There she is,” said the man in a tone of pity, as
he pointed to a corner of the apartment; “an’ Pm
afear’d she’s goin’ fast.”

Martin stepped towards a low truckle-bed on which
lay the emaciated form of a woman covered with a
scanty and ragged quilt. The corner of it was drawn
across her face, and so gentle was her breathing that
it seemed as if she were already dead. Martin re-

moved the covering, and one clance at that gentle,