"Not the man they call the dealer?"
"That's the chap. He'll be out on Monday, and he's going to give me a berth."
"What is he a dealer in, Tip?"
"Horses. All right! I shall do now, Amy."
She lost sight of him for months afterwards, and only heard from him once. A whisper passed among the elder prisoners that he had been seen at a mock auction in Moorfields, pretending to buy plated articles for real silver, and paying for them with the greatest liberality in bank-notes; but it never reached her ears. One evening she was alone at work—standing up at the window, to save the twilight lingering above the wall—when he opened the door and walked in.
She kissed and welcomed him; but was afraid to ask him any question. He saw how anxious and timid she was, and appeared sorry.
"I am afraid, Amy, you'll be vexed this time. Upon my life I am!"
"I am very sorry to hear you say so, Tip. Have you come back?"
"Why—yes."
"Not expecting this time that what you had found would answer very well, I am less surprised and sorry than I might have been, Tip."