“Dahtin’ Thomas, ain’t yer? S’posin’ I tells yer one bit an’ keeps the other up me sleeve till yer pays? Then yer’ll know what quality yer buyin’.”
“All right,” said Poole, “fire away.”
His companion leant closer to him and said in a husky whisper.
“E’s paid ’er off!”
“Paid her off? Who? What d’you mean?”
“Fratten. E’s paid off that Vermint gurl—blood-money, breach-o’-prom., alimony—whatever yer calls it. Five bob a week she’d ’a bin lucky to git if she’d moved in my circles—at the worst,” he added with a leer.
“How do you know?” asked Poole, who was now definitely interested.
“ ’Eard ’er buckin’ about it to ’er pals. Not much I don’t see an’ ’ear rahnd the ‘Hinanity’—worf sumfin’ sometimes. That’s the first part, mister—the rest’s better.” He held out his hand.
With some repugnance Poole slipped a ten-shilling note into the grimy palm. The man spat on it and tucked it into his belt.
“I knows where ’e got it from—the spondulics to pay ’er with.” He paused for encouragement, but receiving none, continued: “I ’eard ’im this time, it was, arstin’ a pal where ’e could raise the wind—said ’e’d tried all the usual—father, ‘uncles,’ Jews, Turks an’ other infidelities—nuthin’ doin’—’ad enough of ’im. This pal put ’im on to a new squeezer—chap called ‘Silence’ in Lemon Street, back o’ the Lyceum. Seen ’is place meself—neat an’ unpretenshus. That’s the chap. That’s worf anover, ain’t it?”