"Sal," she said, after a short pause, turning her clear gray eyes on the woman, "I want to ask you something."
The other shivered and turned pale.
"About—about that?"
Madge nodded.
Sal hesitated for a moment and then flung herself at the feet of her mistress.
"I will tell you," she cried. "You have been kind to me, an' have a right to know. I will tell you all I know."
"Then," asked Madge, firmly, as she clasped her hands tightly together, "who was this woman whom Mr. Fitzgerald went to see, and where did she come from?"
"Gran an' me found her one evenin' in Little Bourke Street," answered Sal, "just near the theatre. She was quite drunk, an' we took her home with us."
"How kind of you," said Madge.
"Oh, it wasn't that," replied the other, dryly. "Gran' wanted her clothes; she was awful swell dressed."
"And she took the clothes—how wicked!"
"Any one would have done it down our way," answered Sal, indifferently; "but Gran' changed her mind when she got her home. I went out to get some gin for Gran', and when I came back she was huggin' and kissin' the woman."
"She recognized her?"
"Yes, I s'pose so," replied Sal, "an' next mornin', when the lady got square, she made a grab at Gran', an' hollered out, 'I was comin' to see you.'"
"And then?"
"Gran' chucked me out of the room, an' they had a long jaw; and then, when I come back, Gran' tells me the lady is a-going to stay with us 'cause she is ill, and sent me for Mr. Whyte."
"And he came?"
"Oh, yes—often," said Sal. "He kicked up a row when he first turned up, but when he found she was ill, sent a doctor, but it warn't no good. She was two weeks with us, and then died the morning she saw Mr. Fitzgerald."
"I suppose Mr. Whyte was in the habit of talking to this woman?"
"Lots," returned Sal; "but he always turned Gran' an' I out of the room afore he started."
