“Not I, Jack—at least, not yet,” said the new-comer, smiling. “But what brings you here? Smelt the reward?”
The man stared, sniffed, rubbed his nose viciously upon his sleeve, and shuffled uneasily from foot to foot; but he did not answer.
“He professes to hold the required information,” said Sir Francis; “and he is afraid that we shall not duly perform our part of the contract. He is suspicious lest we should withhold part of the money—my friend here thinking that he ought first to prove the value of his tidings.”
“Of course,” said the new-comer, with a commendatory nod of the head at Clayton; “he knows what business is, evidently. Not though, that our friend Jack Screwby here would do anything but what was of the most honourable description. He’s a gent who would scorn a mean action, and as to taking advantage of anybody, there, bless your heart, you might trust him with a baby unborn.”
“None o’ your gammon, now, can’t you?” growled Jack.
“Gammon! nonsense, Jack! It’s all straightforward and above-board. You shall be all right. Now, look here—what do you know? If it’s worth the two hundred pounds, you shall have the money clean down in your fist. I’ll see that you do. Now are you satisfied?”
“Fain sweatings,” growled Mr Screwby, who was apparently far from being in as confident a state as he could have wished.
“What does he say?” exclaimed Sir Francis.
“He means, sir, that he don’t want the reward money to be fiddled.”
“Fiddled?” said Sir Francis.