“Who is she?” inquired Noah.
“One of us.”
“Oh Lor!” cried Noah, curling up his nose. “Yer doubtful of her, are yer?”
“She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they are,” replied the Jew.
“I see,” said Noah. “Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they’re respectable people, eh?—Ha! ha! ha! I’m your man.”
“I knew you would be,” cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
“Of course, of course,” replied Noah. “Where is she? Where am I to wait for her? When am I to go?”
“All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point her out at the proper time,” said Fagin. “You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.”
That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and equipped in his carter’s dress, ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six nights passed,—six long weary nights,—and on each Fagin came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the seventh he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. It was Sunday.