HE catch of the kitchen window yielded easily, and Bill Simmons had no difficulty in finding his way to the dining-room by the "service" entrance. He was feeling round the wall for the switch of the electric lights, when they flashed out suddenly. He turned and saw a tall, fair lady in a blue dressing-gown at the other end of the long room. The lady looked so much more holy than anything he had imagined, that violence was out of the question; and, moreover. Bill had a grain of chivalry in his burglarious soul. "'E's never so much as laid a 'and on me," his wife boasted.
"Begging your pardon, lady," he said, "but I've made a mistake and come to the wrong 'ouse. Don't you make a fuss, and I'll go quiet, an' touch nothing."
"There isn't much to take," the lady said in a voice which made him think of a church. "Are you in great need, that you are driven to this? Perhaps I might give you enough for a Christmas dinner, if it's that."
Bill believed that he blushed. He certainly felt like it.
"Blimy" he began.
"Don't swear," the lady told him.
"Beg pardon, lady," he apologised humbly. "Dessay you took it for an excuse, being copped. But it's a fac'. Mistook the 'ouse I did. Owing to liquor. Not drunk, I wasn't, but, being Christmas Eve, had enough to make me careless-like. The crib I was looking for was—well, someone else's. Fac'!"
"Was it need drove you to it?" the vision wanted to know. "Were you starving?"
"No-o," he owned. "It's my perfeshon, you see."
"Then," she told him, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself."
"Dessay I ought," he owned. "A bloke must do something for a living."
"He should work," she stated. "A great, strong man like you. Why don't you do honest work?"
"Ah!" he said. "Work? Been told that before. Church visitors and them. Might 'ave paid more attention if they'd spoke more like you, lady. If you don't mind, I'll be going. No damage done, you'll find. Just slipped a catch of the kitchen window. Your servants don't lock up careful. Best keep an eye to 'em, lady … Begging your pardon." He backed through the "service" door to the kitchen. "Wishing you a merry Christmas, if no offence," he said, touching his cap.
"Wait a moment," the lady commanded. He took a step back from the shadow toward the light. "How poor are you?"
"Middlin' poor," he thought. "off and on. Depends on 'ow my business 'as gone, you see. The fences get most out of it, an' that's a fac', lady."
"Have you a wife and children?" she inquired.
"Three," he said. "Three kids. One wife. Roof over our 'eads. Firing for the kitchen. Enough to eat and drink. Clothes to our backs. Not what you'd call poor—not like some."
"How old are the children?" she demanded.
"Now you've got me." He scratched his head. "Well, 'Arry might be somewhere about four year. Sharp little nipper, too. And Rosalie"
"Rosalie?" the lady queried. She smiled a wonderful faint smile.
"Name as 'er mother got out of a tale. 'Lady Rosalie' she wanted 'er to be christened, but the parson cut the 'Lady' out. Too good for the like of us. She might be two or three. Dunno. About that 'eight from the floor." He held out his hand. "Got a tongue like 'er mother's—always a-wagging. And the things she says! 'Why doesn't farver go to 'eaven?' she wants to know. 'What 'ud 'e do there?' 'er mother arsks. 'Nick them gold 'arps,' sez she. Funny ideas kids 'ave got!"
"I suppose you wouldn't be above taking them?" the lady suggested. "But I'm afraid you won't get in, Mr.—Mr. Burglar!"
"Simmons, the name is," he told her. "In confidence, lady, and not to be mentioned to the police."
"I shall not mention it to the police, Mr. Simmons," she assured him. "And your third child?"
"Baby," he told her. "Nigh on a year. Born when I was in—well, 'doing time,' to be candid, lady—and ought to have been a lesson to me."
"To give up stealing," she said.
"P'r'aps so," he owned; "but I was thinking of drink. Never been copped, if I'd kept off it. In my line you can't afford to be fuzzy. Want your wits about you. Anything more, lady, you'd like to arsk?"
Women, he reflected, were strangely inquisitive persons, even ladies that looked like a holy princess who might be painted on a church window.
"I was not questioning you merely from curiosity," the lady explained. Her voice, he thought, was like the soft part of a church organ. "I was wondering whether you had bought any Santa Claus presents for your little children?"
"Sweets," he told her, "and some toys off the street barrows; a few pence apiece. Wouldn't run to more."