"I swear," said Vraik, promptly. "Bless y', I don't want t'arm y'. I on'y wish t'save Mr. Maller, cos I won't git m' money paid if I don't. Now where is he? Tell me strite."
"In that house--in Soho."
"Is he a prisoner, ole cove?"
"Yes; he said too much, so Drabble and Mrs. Arne had him locked up."
"Drabble and Mrs. Arne!" repeated Vraik. "Who's they?"
Trall shut up promptly. "Oh, you don't know so much if you don't know who they are."
"Ho! that's it, is it?" squeaked the rascal, with a puckered forehead; "now I jes' tell y', ole cove. I knows enough to mess up you and them bomb-pitchin' cusses, so you speak strite. Who's Mrs. Arne an' t'other chap?"
"Anarchists," faltered Trall. "But it's not necessary to talk about them," he went on rapidly, "but about Mr. Mallow. He is a prisoner in the Soho house."
"'Ow can I git im out?"
"You can't get him out except at the risk of your life," said Trall, coldly.