“Well, den”—Rhoda Gray risked a more peremptory tone—“where is he?”
Shluker shook his head again.
“I dunno,” he said. “I'm tellin' you, he didn't say.”
Rhoda Gray studied the wizened and repulsive old creature, that, huddled in his chair in the dirty, boxed-in little office, made her think of some crafty old spider lurking in its web for unwary prey. Was the man lying to her? Was he in any degree suspicious? Why should he be? He had given not the slightest sign that her uncouth language was either unexpected or unnecessary. Perhaps to Shluker, and perhaps to all the rest of the gang—except Danglar!—Gypsy Nan was accepted at face value as just Gypsy Nan; and, if that were so, the idea of playing up a natural wifely anxiety on Danglar's behalf could not be used unless Shluker gave her a lead in that direction. But, all that apart, she was getting nowhere. She bit her lips in disappointment. She had counted a great deal on this Shluker here, and Shluker was not proving the fount of information, far from it, that she had hoped he would.
She tried again-even more peremptorily than before.
“Aw, open up!” she snapped. “Wot's de use bein' a clam! Youse heard me, didn't youse? Where is he?”
Shluker leaned abruptly forward, and looked at her in a suddenly perturbed way.
“Is there anything wrong?” he asked in a tense, lowered voice. “What makes you so anxious to know?”
Rhoda Gray laughed shortly.
“Nothin'!” she answered coolly. “I told youse once, didn't I? I got a scare readin' dem papers—an' I ain't over it yet. Dat's wot I want to know for, an' youse seem afraid to open up!”