But, even so, Barnabas turned and followed, striding on and on until
at length he saw again the flutter of the threadbare cloak. And,
because of its shabbiness, he frowned and hastened his steps, and
because of the look he had read in her eyes, he paused again, yet
followed doggedly nevertheless. She led him down Holborn Hill past
the Fleet Market, over Blackfriars Bridge, and so, turning sharp to
the right, along a somewhat narrow and very grimy street between
rows of dirty, tumble-down houses, with, upon the right hand,
numerous narrow courts and alley-ways that gave upon the turgid river.
Down one of these alleys the fluttering cloak turned suddenly, yet
when Barnabas reached the corner, behold the alley was quite deserted,
save for a small and pallid urchin who sat upon a rotting stump,
staring at the river, with a pallid infant in his arms.
"Which way did the lady go?" inquired Barnabas.
"Lady?" said the urchin, staring.
"Yes. She wore a cloak,--a gray cloak. Where did she go?" and
Barnabas held up a shilling. Instantly the urchin rose and, swinging
the pallid infant to his ragged hip, pattered over the cobbles with
his bare feet, and with one small, dirty claw extended.
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