"My name's Potter," said the boy, grinning at this praise. "I work for old Rams the butcher."
"Ah, I know the shop," said Derrick, noting this. "I once lived in Hampstead, and dealt with Mr. Rams."
"My, ain't he sharp over the money. But Mrs. Brand always paid up like a lady. Guess the miser got his rent."
"Webb hailed Derrick at this moment. Are you going to talk to that brat all day, officer?" he inquired shrilly, peering out of the open door.
At the word "officer" Potter backed with a look of apprehension. "I say, you're a peeler. Lor! Anything wrong?"
"No," said Derrick, vexed at being thus betrayed. "Hold your tongue about this conversation. I'll make it worth your while."
"I'm fly," said Master Potter, with a whistle and an easier look. He showed a disposition to linger at the gate; but Derrick ordered him sway sharply, and he departed, casting looks over his shoulder, too amazed at his discovery of Derrick's profession to call old Webb bad names. Derrick went inside.
"If Mr. Brand arrives I can show him this as my authority for entering the cottage," said Derrick, displaying a search-warrant.
"Brand! Mrs. Brand?"
"Mister! The husband."