in which the criminal resided'; and you will find Mrs. Dowey's home
therein marked with a X.

Her abode really consists of one room, but she maintains that there are
two; so, rather than argue, let us say that there are two. The other one
has no window, and she could not swish her old skirts in it without
knocking something over; its grandest display is of tin pans and
crockery on top of a dresser which has a lid to it; you have but to whip
off the utensils and raise the lid, and, behold, a bath with hot and
cold. Mrs. Dowey is very proud of this possession, and when she shows it
off, as she does perhaps too frequently, she first signs to you with
closed fist (funny old thing that she is) to approach softly. She then
tiptoes to the dresser and pops off the lid, as if to take the bath
unawares. Then she sucks her lips, and is modest if you have the grace
to do the exclamations.

In the real room is a bed, though that is putting the matter too
briefly. The fair way to begin, if you love Mrs. Dowey, is to say to her
that it is a pity she has no bed. If she is in her best form she will
chuckle, and agree that the want of a bed tries her sore; she will keep
you on the hooks, so to speak, as long as she can; and then, with that
mouse-like movement again, she will suddenly spring the bed on you. You
thought it was a wardrobe, but she brings it down from the wall; and lo,
a bed. There is nothing else in her abode (which we now see to contain
four rooms--kitchen, pantry, bedroom, and bathroom) that is absolutely
a surprise; but it is full of 'bits,' every one of which has been paid
ready money for, and gloated over and tended until it has become part of
its owner. Genuine Doweys, the dealers might call them, though there is
probably nothing in the place except the bed that would fetch
half-a-crown.