"Answer me directly."

"Please, sir, you told me not to speak unless you asked me a question."

"I said, 'A likely story!' which meant, 'Do you expect me to believe that?'"

"Of course I do, sir."

"Why?"

"Because it is true."

"How am I to believe that?"

"I don't know, sir. I only know I've got to speak the truth. It's the person who hears it that's got to believe it, ain't it, sir?"

"You've got to prove it."

"I don't think so, sir; I never was told so; I was only told I must speak the truth; I never was told I must prove what I said.--I've been several times disbelieved, I know."

"I should think so indeed!"

"It was by people who did not know me."

"Never by people who did know you?"

"I think not, sir. I never was by the people at home."

"Ah! you could not read what they were thinking!"

"Were you not believed when you were at home, sir?"

The magistrate's doubt of Clare had its source in the fact that, although now he was more careful to speak the truth than are most people, it was not his habit when a boy, and he had suffered severely in consequence. He was annoyed, therefore, at his question, set him down as a hypocritical, boastful prig, and was seized with a strong desire to shame him.

"I remand the prisoner for more evidence. Take the children to the workhouse," he said.

Tommy gave a sudden full-sized howl. He had heard no good of the workhouse.

"The baby is mine!" pleaded Clare.

"Are you the father of it?" said the big policeman.

"Yes, I think so: I saved her life.--She would have been drowned if I hadn't looked for her when I heard the splash!" reasoned Clare, his face drawn with grief and the struggle to keep from crying.

"She's not yours," said the magistrate. "She belongs to the parish. Take her away, James."

The big policeman came up to take her. Clare would have held her tight, but was afraid of hurting her. He did draw back from the outstretched hands, however, while he put a question or two.

"Please, sir, will the parish be good to her?" he asked.

"Much better than you."

"Will it let me go and see her?" he asked again, with an outbreaking sob.

"You can't go anywhere till you're out of this," answered the big policeman, and, not ungently, took the baby from him.

"And when will that be, please?" asked Clare, with his empty arms still held out.

"That depends on his worship there."

"Hold your tongue, James," said the magistrate. "Take the boy away, John."

"Please, sir, where am I going to?" asked Clare.

"To prison, till we find out about you."

"Please, sir, I didn't mean to steal her. I didn't know the parish wanted her!"

"Take the boy away, I tell you!" cried the magistrate angrily. "His tongue goes like the hopper of a mill!"

James, carrying the baby on one arm, was already pushing Tommy before him by the neck. Tommy howled, and rubbed his red eyes with what was left him of cuffs, but did not attempt resistance.

"Please, don't let anybody hold her upside down, policeman!" cried Clare. "She doesn't like it!--Oh, baby! baby!"

John tightened his grasp on his arm, and hurried him away in another direction.

Where the big policeman issued with his charge, there was Abdiel hovering about as if his spring were wound up so tight that it wouldn't go off. How he came to be at that door, I cannot imagine.

When he spied Tommy, he rushed at him. Tommy gave him a kick that rolled him over.

"Don't want _you_, you mangy beast!" he said, and tried to kick him again.

Abdiel kept away from him after that, but followed the party to the workhouse, where also, to his disgust, plainly expressed, he was refused admittance. He returned to the entrance by which Clare had vanished from his eyes the night before, and lay down there. I suspect he had an approximate canine theory of the whole matter. He knew at least that Clare had gone in with the others at that door; that he had not come out with them at the other door; that, therefore, in all probability, he was within that door still.

The police made inquiry at Mr. Maidstone's shop. Reasons for his dismissal were there given involving no accusation: there was little desire in that quarter to have the matter searched into. There was therefore nothing to the discredit of the boy, beyond his running to earth in the neglected house like a wild animal. After three days he was set at liberty.

As the big policeman led the way to the door to send him out, Clare addressed him thus:

"Please, Mr. James, may I go back to the house for a little while?"

"Well, you _are_ an innocent!" said James; "--or," he added, "the biggest little humbug ever I see!--No, it's not likely!"

"I only wanted," explained Clare, "to set things straight a bit. The house is cleaner than it was, _I_ know, but it is not in such good order as when we went into it. I don't like to leave it worse than we found it."

"Never you heed," said James, believing him perfectly before he knew what he was about. "The house don't belong to n.o.body, so far as ever I heerd, an' the things'll rot all the same wherever they stand."

"But I should like," persisted Clare.

"I couldn't do it off my own hook, an' his worship would think you only wanted to steal something. The best thing you can do is to leave the place at once, an' go where n.o.body knows nothing agin you."