"Oh, nobody partic'lar," Mag answered with an assumption of indifference. "On'y a woman I know—name o' Jane. What d'you want?"
"Ah, now you're come to it." Blind George put his fiddle and bow on the table and groped for a chair. "Fust," he went on, "is there anybody else as can 'ear? Eh? Cracks or crannies or peepholes, eh? 'Cause I come as a pal, to talk private business, I do."
"It's all right, George; nobody can hear. What is it?"
"Why," said the blind man, catching her tight by the arm, and leaning forward to whisper; "it's Dan, that's what it is. It's Dan!"
She was conscious of a catching of the breath and a thump of the heart; and Blind George knew it too, for he felt it through the arm.
"It's Dan," he repeated. "So now you know if it's what you'd like listened to."
"Go on," she said.
"Ah. Well, fust thing, all bein' snug, 'ere's five bob; catch 'old." He slid his right hand down to her wrist, and with his left pressed the money into hers. "All right, don't be frightened of it, it won't 'urt ye! Lord, I bet Dan 'ud do the same for me if I wanted it, though 'e is a bit rough sometimes. I ain't rich, but I got a few bob by me; an' if a pal ain't to 'ave 'em, who is? Eh? Who is?"
He grinned under the white eye so ghastly a counterfeit of friendly good-will that the woman shrank, and pulled at the wrist he held.
"Lord love ye," he went on, holding tight to the wrist, "I ain't the bloke to round on a pal as is under a cloud. See what I might 'a' done, if I'd 'a' wanted. I might 'a' gone an' let out all sorts o' things, as you know very well yerself, at the inquest—both the inquests. But did I? Not me. Not a bit of it. That ain't my way. No; I lay low, an' said nothing. What arter that? Why, there's fifty quid reward offered, fifty quid—a fortune to a pore bloke like me. An' all I got to do is to go and say 'Dan Ogle' to earn it—them two words an' no more. Ain't that the truth? D'y' hear, ain't that the truth?"