Harry nodded.
“Werry good, then. I comes here, and I says, ‘’And over the stiff!’ ‘What for?’ says you. ‘’Cos I knows wheer he is,’ says I. ‘So, now then,’ I says, ‘hand over the tin.’”
Without another word, Sir Francis went to a small writing-case, opened it, and took from a book a ready-signed cheque for the amount.
“Stop!” exclaimed Harry. “Excuse me, Sir Francis; but your anxiety overleaps your caution. How do we know that this man’s information is worth having?”
“He says he knows where—where—you know what he says,” said Sir Francis, piteously.
“Yes,” said Harry; “but let him prove his words.”
“What! are yer agoin’ to run back from it, or are yer agoin’ to hand over the stiff?” said the man, uneasily.
“When you have earned it,” said Harry, almost fiercely. “Now, look here, my man, show us the value of your information, and restore this gentleman to his friends; and without any reference to such complicity as you may have had in the transaction, the two hundred pounds are yours.”
“But lookye here,” said the man, leaning towards him; “suppose as he’s—you know what?” and he whispered the last words.
“The money is yours all the same,” said Harry, in the same tone.