The girl nodded. “That’s right,” was her original reply.
“What is it, do you know?”
“He wouldn’t say. I told him you was in asking questions and he seemed sort of interested. ‘Wants to know about Berlyn and Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn’s goings-on with Pyke, does he?’ he sez. ‘I thought some one would be wanting to know about that before long. Well, I can tell him something,’ he sez.”
“But he didn’t mention what it was?”
“No. I asked him and he sez ‘Value for cash,’ he sez. ‘He puts down the beans and I cough up the stuff. That’s fair, ain’t it?’ he sez. ‘Don’t be a silly guff, Alf,’ I sez. ‘He’s police and if he asks you questions, why, you don’t half have to answer them.’ ‘The devil I have,’ he sez. ‘I ain’t done no crime and he hasn’t nothing on me. You tell him,’ he sez, ‘tell him I know something that would be worth a quid or two to him.’ And so I wrote you that note.”
“Tell me why you thought I was police,” French invited.
Miss Johnston laughed scornfully.
“Well, ain’t you?” she parried.
“That’s hardly an answer to my question.”
“Well, everybody knows what you’re after. They say you think Pyke was murdered on the moor and that Berlyn murdered him. Leastways, that’s what I’ve heard said.”