'The gentleman who gave you the ballad.'
'Didn't say Pope, said Scrotton,' answered the Crow. 'Very honest man, my friend Mr. Scrotton. Met him often. Exshlent judge of wine, Mr. Scrotton. Exshlent judge of plots. Mr. Scrotton applauded our scheme.'
'You told him about it? What plot did you tell him of? Not of the rising? Not of this immediate Blow? Crow, you should be shot!'
'I told him! You inshult me, sir. Very good plot, very good wine. Mr. Scrotton told me about plot. Often talked it over a bottle. I'm a most cautious man. I don't drink except with very honest men. Dangerous!' murmured the Crow.
'You are sure his name is Scrotton?'
'Quite certain. Said "Pope" because of poetry. Soshiation of ideas. Mr. Pope's poet. You'd know that, but you are drunk, Mr. Wogan.'
There was nothing more to be got out of the Crow. Invited to give a personal description of Mr. Scrotton, he fell back on his moral character as 'a very honest man.' He might be, or, again, he might be a spy. In any case, here was the ballad, and there was the furious woman ready for any revenge.
'Go home; go to bed! Tyrell and I will walk with you to your rooms,' said Mr. Wogan, who, stepping to the letter-rack, picked up an epistle for Mr. Hilton. The handwriting of the superscription made him look so blank that the others noticed his face and were silent. The letter was in Lady Oxford's hand. He put it in his pocket.
They led the Crow to his door in Germain Street. He behaved pretty well on the whole, only insisting that his fortune would be made if Wogan would but give him the ballad and let him sing it at the corner of St. James's.
'Affluence would be mine,' he said, and dropped a tear. 'Oh, Wilton--Hogan, I would say--'tis a golden opportunity!'