“No doubt you do; and I suppose you wish to sell your knowledge at the highest possible figure,” said Dean, with a very slight smile.
“You’re wrong for once,” returned Trumps. “If you’d said that to me two days ago, I’d ’ave said ‘yes;’ but I’ve ’eard things in this blessed room w’ich ’as made me change my mind. You’re welcome to all I knows for nothing.”
Mr Dean did not believe in sudden conversion, nevertheless he expressed gratification. Being what the Yankees call ’cute, he avoided anything like eagerness in gaining information.
“My business here, however,” he said, “is to get information about that Scotsman, you know, and the charge of theft by Mr Lockhart. We believe Laidlaw to be innocent and, understanding that you think as we do, and that you know something about him, we hope you may be able to help us.”
From this point Mr Dean began to pump and squeeze, and Trumps proved worthy of his name in the way he submitted to both processes. At last, when nothing more was to be got Mr Dean said, in a somewhat careless way, “You are acquainted, I believe, with old Mrs Morley—chimney-pot Liz, they call her—are you not?”
“Yes, I am. I’ve known her long. Knew her when I was footman in a family connected with the Brentwoods.”
“Oho!” thought Mr Dean with sudden surprise, for he began to smell more of his second rat, but he looked stolid; said nothing; did not move a muscle; merely nodded his head gently as if to say, go on.
“Now I know what you’re driving at,” continued Trumps, with a very knowing wink, “an’ I’ll help you. First place, my name ain’t Trumps.”
“I know that—it’s Rodgers,” said the detective.
“Whew! how d’ee know that?” exclaimed the thief in extreme surprise.