already had experience. More than once dark, sheeted figures passed
them by, noiseless save for the underfoot swish in the mud, and
presently the alley widened into a little square, at one side of
which there was a fresh rustle of green things. At the side of it a
dim light showed through a big open door, from which came a musical
murmur of voices, and Dawson recognized a church.

"The Little Garden of St. Sebastien," murmured the woman, and led him
on to cross the square. A figure that had been hidden in the shadow
now lounged forth; and revealed itself to them as a man in uniform.
He stood across their way, and accosted the woman briefly in
Portuguese.

Dawson stood fidgeting while she spoke with him. He seemed to be
repeating a brief phrase over and over again, harshly and irritably;
but she was cajoling, remonstrating, arguing, as he had seen her
argue in that ill-fated room an hour back.

"What's the matter with him?" demanded Dawson impatiently.

"He says he won't let me go," answered the woman, with a tone of
despair in her voice.

"The devil he won't! What's he got to do with it?"

"Oh, these little policemen, they always arrest me when they can,"
she replied, with a smile.

"Here, you!" cried Dawson, addressing himself to the man in uniform--
"you go away. Voetsaak, see! You mind your own business, and get