“The workus, I s’pose,” she said tersely. “Now, if I could get that five ’underd pound the perlice is offerin’, it’s visitin’ yer I’d be, an’ not doin’ yer dirty work.”
“Five hundred pounds?”
“Five ’underd pound. Arf that ’ud make a lady of me. I was a lady born and bred; my father ’ad a jeweler’s business in the Strand. But we none of us knows what we may come to. Five ’underd pound for information as ’ull lead to the conviction of——”
“Oh, yes, I know. The Hackney Wick murderer. But you’ll never get him. He committed suicide, there’s very little doubt about that.”
“Aint there, now? The mean ’ound! And five ’underd pound ’angin’ on it—which would ’a’ bin a godsend to many a poor person. To think of ’im a-skulkin’ off in that ’ole-and-corner way, with five ’underd pound on ’im.”
“What would you like to set you up in life, supposing you had the chance of choosing?” Arnold persisted.
She thought a little. Then she said longingly:
“There’s a nice shirt-and-collar business goin’ cheap in the Lane—Leather Lane. The laidy’s got a young family and can’t see to the laundry. Fifty pound ’ud buy it. An’ I’m used to clear starchin’.”
Arnold was delighted at being let off so lightly. He said, trying hard to smooth the complacent grin from his face, and lying glibly, as we all can in emergency:
“I’ve always had a great regard for you, Mrs. Neaves. You’ve done my work well, and you’ve been very good to Sol. I’m going to be married shortly, as I told you——”