"Excuse me, Mr. Allston," says I, "but that ain't the order of events. It's like this: First off you tell me where the wad is; then I tell you about Helma."
Makes him groan a bit, that does, and he scowls at me stubborn. "They tried all that on at Headquarters," says he. "It's no use."
"You'd get off lighter if you told," says I.
"I've nothing to tell," he insists.
"How about swappin' what you know for two tickets to Australia?" I suggests.
"Hah!" says he. "Helma's been talkin'!"
"She's a chatty youngster," says I, "and she thinks a heap of her Daddums. I ain't sure, though, whether you come first—or Arabella."
If I hadn't been watchin' for it, I might not have noticed, but the quiver that begins in the fingers grippin' the bars runs clear up to the sagged shoulders. His mouth twitches nervous, and then he gets hold of himself.
"Oh, yes," says he, forcin' a smile. "Her doll. She—she still has that, has she?"
"Uh-huh!" says I, watchin' him keen. "I'm keepin' close track of both."