“Bill, there’s a gentleman who comes to you for information, and he will pay for it handsomely.”
Bill again appeared at the casement, and peeped forth very cautiously through the bars.
“Bless my vitals, Mr. R——, and it is you, is it? What were you saying about paying handsomely?”
“That your evidence is wanted,—not against a pal, man. It will hurt no one, and put at least five guineas in your pocket.”
“Ten guineas,” said the Bow-Street officer’s companion. “You be’s a man of honour, Mr. R——!” said Bill, emphatically; “and I scorns to doubt you, so here goes.”
With that he withdrew from the window, and in another minute or so the door was opened, and Bill, with a superb bow, asked his visitors into his room.
In the interval, leisure had been given to the cracksman to remove all trace of the wonted educational employment of his hopeful children. The urchins were seated on the floor playing at push-pin; and the Bow-Street officer benignly patted a pair of curly heads as he passed them, drew a chair to the table, and wiping his forehead, sat down, quite at home. Bill then deliberately seated himself, and unbuttoning his waistcoat, permitted the butt-ends of a brace of pistols to be seen by his guests. Mr. R——‘s companion seemed very unmoved by this significant action. He bent one inquiring, steady look on the cracksman, which, as Bill afterwards said, went through him “like a gimlet through a penny,” and taking out a purse, through the network of which the sovereigns gleamed pleasantly, placed it on the table and said,—
“This purse is yours if you will tell me what has become of a woman named Joplin, with whom you left the village of ——, in Lancashire, in the year 18—.”
“And,” put in Mr. R——, “the gentleman wants to know, with no view of harming the woman. It will be to her own advantage to inform us where she is.”
“‘Pon honour again?” said Bill.