"Go on," said the detective.
"There an't much more to tell. Sefton hired me to play off that I was Mitchel, and he gave me a cock-and-bull yarn to feed you with about a woman named Rose Mitchel."
"What was that story?"
"Say, look here," said Chambers, his confidence and cunning returning as he felt himself out of danger of arrest, "you don't want that fairy tale. You would rather have the true story, wouldn't you?"
"Certainly."
"Well, I'm an old-timer, I am. There an't much that's happened in the Crescent that I couldn't remember, if I was paid for it."
"See here, my man, you are not dealing with Sefton now. You tell me what I want to know, and if I find it is true, I'll pay you for it. But if you play any tricks, I'll make it warm for you."
"That's all right. Suppose I begin by telling you that this Rose Mitchel, that you say was murdered, was known down here chiefly as Rose Montalbon. 'La Montalbon,' she was generally called."
"La Montalbon?" repeated Mr. Barnes. "Then, was she an actress?"
"Actress? Well, I guess she was, considerable. But not on the stage. No, she kept a gambling-den on Royal Street. Fitted up like a palace too, and many a young fool has lost his last dime in that house."