"Did you ever see the secret books of the police," he said, "with the names of certain men with black marks against them? Why, we can lay our hands upon every thief and fence in London when we want to--do you hear? when we want to." Mr. Higgins winced. "There are some things that lick us for a time, like this Catchpole Square Mystery, but we don't go to sleep over them, though some people may think we do. And when we're playing a high game we don't show our cards. What I mean is, that we'll have your place searched for stolen goods. How will that suit you, my honest tradesman? We can bring one or two things against you that you'll find it hard to explain when you're in the dock. If we let you alone it's because you're not worth the powder and shot, but get our dander up, Mr. Higgins, and we'll make short work of you. How does that suit your book? Take care of your precious self, my man, and let sleeping dogs lie." It was vague, but effective, and it was Dick's good fortune that the hazardous shot told. Indeed, it had gone straight to the bull's eye. Many were the questionable transactions in which, from time to time, Mr. Higgins had been engaged. Petty thieves in the neighbourhood were in the habit of selling their small spoils across his counter; this modern Fagin was always ready to buy, and no questions asked. He had been in trouble more than once, and was in mortal dread of getting into trouble again. This, of course, was unknown to Dick, and it was only from his familiarity with the nature of much of the business transacted in some of these second-hand shops in mean streets that he had ventured upon the bold attack. He could have hugged himself when he saw the effect it produced upon Mr. Higgins.