There was an uneasy mood on Marlow this day: a disturbing and melancholy mood that would not let him rest. Part of it was the deep and lingering grief at the death of his boy, and part was because of something Nelly had told him.

For days now he had reflected on the news which Nelly had rightly confided in him, and which concerned the young woman and the child who had come to the house on Park Street in his and Emma’s absence. When Nelly had first brought the news to him, wondering whether she ought to keep it from Emma, he had quickly instructed that Emma should not yet be told of the incident, especially as there was a child involved and Emma’s grief was such that he dare not risk causing her any more pain. Once he and Nelly were agreed on that particular issue, he had seen no reason to pursue the matter any further.

But certain facets of Nelly’s story had stayed with him, to tease and torment him, and now he could not put them out of his mind. Nelly had described Molly as being ‘thin as a sparrer… with big black eyes and hair the colour of wet coal. The poor creature’s had a hard life, I reckon… having ter pick pockets and forage for a living since she were growed enough ter outrun a constable.’ Marlow reflected on Nelly’s words, and the more he did so, the more he was made to recall other descriptions, of the waif who had been found and raised by his own sister, Sal, when he himself was forced to take to the high seas. One of the greatest and most painful regrets was discovering on his return that old Sal had passed away.

Over the ensuing months, Marlow had learned of the small girl who had seen to it that Sal had been given a proper and Christian burial. A girl who, according to various sources, was ‘thin as a reed and dark in features… possessed of big black eyes, and a rare talent fer picking the gents’ pockets’. All of Marlow’s efforts to find the girl had been in vain.

Now, because of Nelly’s tale regarding the one called Molly, the yearning to find that particular waif was once more raised in him. There was something else too, though he was not convinced enough to discuss it with anyone else – it had occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, this ‘Molly’ and the waif raised by his sister might be one and the same.

Marlow was not entirely satisfied though, because in this town, as in all other industrial areas, there were any number of vagabonds and pickpockets. It was sad but true. All the same, there was one other reason why Marlow had become more and more persuaded that he should go and talk to this ‘Molly’. Her description tallied so closely with that of the waifs, it was true, yet more importantly, it was the name by which that young woman called her own child that intrigued him. Oh, Sal was a common enough name, to be sure. And yet. And yet.