e—''
But she shakes her head, almost smiles. ''Now, why should I have been that?''
''You don''t know everything, then!'' I say. ''You don''t know that I was born in a madhouse!''
''Was you?'' she answers quickly. ''Why do you say so?''
''You think I don''t remember my own home?''
''I should say you remember the place you lived in when you was little. Why, so do we all. Don''t mean we was born there.''
''I was, I know it,'' I say.
''You was told it, I expect.''
''Every one of my uncle''s servants knows it!''
''They was told it, too, perhaps. Does that make it true? Maybe, j Maybe not.''
As she speaks, she moves from the wash-hand stand to the bed, and sits upon it, slowly and heavily. She looks at Richard. She puts her hand to her ear, and strokes the lobe. With a show of lightness
she says, ''Find your room all right, Gentleman?''—I have guessed at last that this is some name he goes by here, among the thieves. ''Find your room all right?'' He nods. She gazes at me again. ''We keeps that room,'' she goes on, in the same light, friendly, dangerous tone, ''for Gentleman to kip in when he comes. A very high, out-of-the-way sort of room it is, I can tell you. Seen all manner of business up there; all sorts of tricks. People been known to come here, rather quiet''—she pretends surprise—''why, just as you have come!—to spend a day, two days, two weeks, who knows how long? tucked away up there. Chaps, maybe, that the police would like a word with. Can''t be found—do you see?—when they come here. Chaps, girls, kids, ladies