“I don’t doubt it!” Havens replied. “Still,” he went on, “judging from appearances, your life here hasn’t been one to be much mourned. You haven’t had many of the comforts of life,” he continued, “and possibly none of its pleasures.”
“I’m an old, old woman to leave the East Side,” wailed the hag. “Besides,” she went on, “how do I know that you would play fair with me? Once out of this place, you’d be likely to hand me over to the police instead of handing the money over to me! I don’t think I can trust you!”
“Tell me this,” asked Havens, “by whose orders was I brought here?”
The old woman hesitated and then shook her head.
“Tim brought you here,” she said in a moment, “and that’s all I know about it. He told me to keep you safe and sound.”
“Who’s Tim?” asked Havens.
“One of the boys,” was the indefinite reply.
“What else did he say?” asked Havens.
“Not much!” was the sullen reply. “Nothing at all!”
The hag was becoming more reticent now. She appealed for consolation to her bottle at regular intervals, and finally drew out a black old clay pipe, filled it by poking a scrawny finger into the bowl, and sat down on the edge of the bunk upon which Havens lay to send the rank fumes of villainous, adulterated tobacco into the already nauseating air of the room.