"Now you must fill the measure of your kindness," said Timm, when they were in the street again, "and tell me my way home. I live----"
"White Horse, Falcon street, No. 43, back room," interrupted Mr. Jeremiah Goodheart, closing his lantern and putting it back into his pocket.
"Are you the devil?" cried Mr. Timm, nervously retreating a step. "How can you know where I live; I have told nobody."
"Do you think so eloquent a speaker at the great meeting at the Booths can long remain unknown to us?" said Mr. Goodheart.
"To us? To whom?" asked Timm.
"Never mind that. Anyhow, I would advise you to deliver your speaking exercises rather within the four walls of your house, especially for the sake of our little affair, which might be sadly interfered with if, for instance, you should go to jail."
"Pshaw!" said Timm; "do you think I covet the glory of a political martyr? I have given the good people a speech because I like to talk; and secondly, because I was angry at the fools."
"All the better," said the other, dryly.
As they were passing under a gas-light Timm cast a glance at his companion, and all of a sudden he understood the enigmatical appearance of the man, and the "us" which he had used.
"Excuse me, Mr. Goodheart," he said. "I think I have heard your brother say that you are a highly-valued member of the Secret Police. Is that so?"