“He must be a very wicked man.”
“Well, he ain’t exactly what you call an angel, but I’ve seen wuss men than the guv’nor.”
“Do you mind telling me your own name?”
“No; for I know you won’t peach on me. Tom Dodger.”
“Dodger?”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t a surname.”
“It’s all I’ve got. That’s what I’m always called.”
“It is very singular,” said Florence, fixing a glance of mingled curiosity and perplexity upon the young visitor.
While the two were earnestly conversing in that subdued light, afforded by the lowered gaslight, Tim Bolton crept in through the door unobserved by either, tiptoed across the room to the secretary, snatched the will and a roll of bills, and escaped without attracting attention.