“It was my suggestion that Mr. Johnson should come,” said Dick.
“Oh, your suggestion, was it?” said the old man, and his attitude was strangely insolent compared with his dejection of the early morning.
Elk’s eyes fell upon the empty beer-mug, and he wondered how often that had been filled since Ezra Maitland had returned to the house. He guessed it had been employed fairly often, for there was a truculence in the ancient man’s tone, a defiance in his eye, which suggested something more than spiritual exaltation.
“I’m not going to answer any questions,” he said loudly. “I’m not going to tell any truth, and I’m not going to tell any lies.”
“Mr. Maitland,” said Johnson hesitatingly, “these gentlemen are anxious to know about the child.”
The old man closed his eyes.
“I’m not going to tell no truth and I’m not going to tell no lies,” he repeated monotonously.
“Now, Mr. Maitland,” said the good-humoured Elk, “forget your good resolution and tell us just why you lived in that slum of Eldor Street.”
“No truth and no lies,” murmured the old man. “You can lock me up but I won’t tell you anything. Lock me up. My name’s Ezra Maitland; I am a millionaire. I’ve got millions and millions and millions! I could buy you up and I could buy up mostly anybody! Old Ezra Maitland! I’ve been in the workhouse and I’ve been in quod.”
Dick and his companion exchanged glances, and Elk shook his head to signify the futility of further questioning the old man. Nevertheless, Dick tried again.