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That wasn't the worst of it. He loped along the narrow footpath at alarming speed, always deeper into the warren of alleys, dead ends, and tunnels bending back on themselves towards the river again. But worse than actually becoming respectable was the secret knowledge he would admit to no one: he rather liked it.
He asked more people: peddlers, shopkeepers, pawnbrokers, beggars. Some he threatened, some he bribed—which was really very painful indeed, because it was his own money.
He traced her as far as the tobacconist and bookseller, where she had apparently collapsed and knocked into a man buying postcards, sending them all on to the floor. What on earth was the stupid woman playing at? But through his anger, which was really fear, he knew exactly what she was doing.
With a little more threat, bribing, and invention he heard about her sudden hysterical flight, but no one knew where she had gone after two or three twists. Mad woman, they said. Who could explain anything she did? Drunk, most like. He wanted to knock them over for that. Claudine would never be drunk! Might be happier if she were, now and then.
It was getting dark, and the clammy air of the day was cooling off Where the devil in hell was the woman? Anything could have happened to her in these miserable alleys. At the very least she would be frightened, possibly worse than that. Another night was coming on. He began to lose his temper with people more genuinely. Perhaps the old Squeaky wasn't so completely lost, just a little submerged under layers of newfound habits in politeness. That thought did not make him as happy as he had expected it to.
It took him another hour of questions, tracking down strangers, and several false hopes and misidentifications before finally, close to eleven o'clock, he found her sitting in a heap on the steps of a tenement off the Shadwell High Street. What on earth was she doing here? She looked utterly wretched. Had he not been looking for her specifically he would never have recognized her.
He stopped squarely in front of her, blocking her chance to get up and run away. He saw the fear in her face, but she was too tired to move, and she simply stared at him, defeated, not even knowing who he was.
The words of anger died on his lips. He was horrified at himself at how relieved he was to see her—if not well, at least alive and uninjured. He swallowed and drew in his breath.
“Well,” he said to her. Then he lost his temper. “Wot the bleedin’ ‘ell are yer doin’ ‘ere, yer daft cow?” he shouted. “Scared the bleedin’ daylights out of us, yer did! ‘Ere!” He thrust out his hand to help her up. “Well, come on then! Wot's the matter with yer? Broken yer bleedin’ legs?” He waved his hand, almost jabbing it at her. Now he was afraid that she really was hurt in some way. What on earth was he going to do if she was? He couldn't carry her; she was a substantial woman, built the way women were supposed to be.
Very cautiously she grasped his hand. He heaved to pull her up, overcome with relief when she stood. He was about to shout at her again when he saw the tears in her eyes, and the gratitude.
He sniffed and turned away, to avoid embarrassing her. “Well, come on then,” he said gruffly. “We better be gettin’ ‘ome. If we're lucky we might find some sort of a cab in the ‘Igh Street. Can yer walk in them great ugly boots?”
“Of course I can,” she said stiffly, and promptly stumbled. He had to catch hold of her and support her weight to stop her from falling. He made no remark about it, and tried hard to think of some other subject to talk about.
“Why din't yer go ‘ome then?” he demanded.
“Because I was lost,” she replied, not looking at him.
They walked in silence for another fifty yards.
“Find any pictures?” he asked. He was not sure if that was a good thing to say or not, but perhaps it was worse to take her failure for granted.
“Yes, I did,” she said immediately. She named the shop and the exact address. “I have no idea which boys they were.” She shuddered violently. “But it was the sort of thing that Phillips does, I imagine. I would prefer not to know any more about it.”
“Really?” Squeaky was surprised. He had not expected her to succeed at all. That must have been when she knocked the cards out of the man's hand. “So you din't really faint then?”
She stopped abruptly. “How do you know about that?”
“Well, ‘ow d'yer think I found yer?” he demanded. “I been askin’! D'yer think I just ‘appened ter be wanderin’ along ‘ere, fer summink ter do, then?”
She started to walk again, hobbling a bit because her feet were so sore. She said nothing for quite a long time. Eventually all the words she could find were “Thank you. I am grateful to you.”
He shrugged. “It's nothin’,” he replied. He did not mean that it was of no importance to him, he meant that she did not owe him any debt. He wondered if she understood that, but it was far too awkward to explain, and he did not know where it might lead.
“Mr. Robinson,” she said about a hundred yards later. They were in the Shadwell High Street, but there were no cabs in sight, only the usual traffic of carts and drays.
He looked at her to indicate his attention.
“I saw some customers go in and out of that shop,” she said a little hesitantly. “I recognized one of them,” she went on. “That was why I ran away.”
“Oh yeah? ‘Oo was it?” He was not sure if it would matter, and who could possibly recognize her, looking like this?
“Mr. Arthur Ballinger,” she replied.
He stopped abruptly, catching her arm and swinging her to a halt as well. “Wot? Ballinger, as Lady Rathbone were?” he said incredulously.
“Yes.” Her eyes did not waver. “He is her father.”
“Buyin’ pictures o’ little boys?” His disbelief sent his voice up almost an octave.
