“You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?” said the matron, interposing, and returning as she spoke the searching look of Monks. “I know they will always keep _one_ till it’s found out,” said Monks contemptuously. “And what may that be?” asked the matron in the same tone. “The loss of their own good name,” replied Monks: “so, by the same rule, if a woman’s a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I’m not afraid of her telling it to any body, not I. Do you understand me?” “No,” rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke. “Of course you don’t!” said Monks ironically. “How should you?” Bestowing something half-way between a sneer and a scowl upon his two companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof, and was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to another floor of warehouses above, when a bright flash of lightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the crazy building to its centre. “Hear it!” he cried, shrinking back. “Hear it rolling and crashing away as if it echoed through a thousand caverns, where the devils are hiding from it. Fire the sound! I hate it.” He remained silent for a few moments, and then removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted, and nearly blank. “These fits come over me now and then,” said Monks, observing his alarm, “and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don’t mind me now; it’s all over for this once.” Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder, and hastily closing the window-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the ceiling, and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that were placed beneath it. “Now,” said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, “the sooner we come to our business, the better for all. The woman knows what it is, does she?” The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the reply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it. “He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died, and that she told you something—” “About the mother of the boy you named,” replied the matron interrupting him. “Yes.” “The first question is, of what nature was her communication?” said Monks. “That’s the second,” observed the woman with much deliberation. “The first is, what may the communication be worth?” “Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?” asked Monks. “Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,” answered Mrs. Bumble, who did not want for spirit, as her yokefellow could abundantly testify. “Humph!” said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry, “there may be money’s worth to get, eh?”