THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously):
And you find a hand.
(Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper):
Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret.
CHRISTIAN (still holding him):
What is it?
THE PICKPOCKET:
Lignière. . .he who has just left you. . .
CHRISTIAN (same play):
Well?
THE PICKPOCKET:
His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places—
and a hundred men—I am of them—are posted to-night. . .
CHRISTIAN:
A hundred men! By whom posted?
THE PICKPOCKET:
I may not say—a secret. . .
CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders):
Oh!
THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity):
. . .Of the profession.
CHRISTIAN:
Where are they posted?