“I cannot, sir; I really cannot.” “Well, well, you have something to sell, and I want to buy it. I offer a good price, but if you won’t accept, there’s an end of the matter. Good evening to you, Mrs. Larkins.” Crossley placed his hat on his head as he spoke and made for the door. “Oh, sir!” said the poor woman, “if only you would see your way to give me five pounds out of the twenty. Even five would save me, sir. I can’t pay the rent, and we’ll be turned out next week, and everybody knows I am the wife of a thief, and I can’t get employment, except this sort, and this sort is starvation, it really is.” “Now look here, my good woman,” said Crossley, returning once more and taking up his stand on the hearth rug, “don’t you think you are a bit of a fool? What are you making all these bones about? You want the money, and I am willing to give it to you. I want to buy something which you can sell. Now, if I promise absolute secrecy, will you tell me what you know on a certain point?” “Oh, if I thought it would never get abroad, of course I would,” said the woman. “Your name will never be breathed in the business—that I swear to you. I want this information for my own private reasons.” “And you’ll give me Bill’s twenty pounds, sir?” “I’ll give you twenty pounds before I leave this house, but you need not call it Bill’s unless you like. I advise you not to for your own sake.” The woman was silent for a moment. Taking out a handkerchief, she wiped some moisture from her forehead. After a pause, she said abruptly: “Very well, I’ll tell. I hope to heaven I ain’t doing nothing wrong.” “Of course you’re not; you are a wise woman who simply knows when her bread is buttered. Come here to the light. Do you know this? Have you ever seen anything like it before?” As he spoke, Crossley held a fragment of the letter, which for so many years he had kept in his possession, before Mrs. Larkins’ eyes. “Yes, sir, I seem to know it,” she replied, turning white. “It is queer writing, is it not?” “Oh, yes, sir, very queer.” “And you are sure you have seen it before?” “Well, yes, sir, I am positive.” “Tell me when and how.” “Well, my husband got letters writ like that more than once—several times. Once he left a letter about and I puzzled to read it. Of course, I could not make out a single word, and he laughed at me trying to get at the back of the cipher as he called it.” “You are quite right; this letter is written in cipher. Now, can you tell me the name of the writer?” “No, sir.” “No, Mrs. Larkins! Remember your twenty pounds.” “Even for that I cannot tell what I do not know, sir. I do not know the name of the writer of that letter.” “Have you ever seen him?” “Oh, that’s another matter,” said Mrs. Larkins. “Yes, I’ve seen him; he come here once or twice—once he came and stayed over an hour; he and my husband talked in this ’ere room.” “And you saw him?” “I see him come and go. The light fell on his face.”