“I want to tell them something. It’s a shame,” with a man’s oath. “They had Billy Cook in, and asked him things, and gave him half a crown, and he didn’t know nothin’! And it was me that ought to had it. It was my stand opposite, by that muddy crossing, and I took sick that day, and stayed home ever since, and to-day when I come back Billy had my stand, and what ought to ‘a’ been mine--and he didn’t know nothing, only answered silly.” “Know nothing about what?” she echoed involuntarily, with no thought of the answer that was to make her heart leap. “About the man that was in that house the day they said there was no one in. I say, couldn’t you knock at the door, and I’d tell them. And p’haps they’d give me ’arf a quid, and mother could get too dead drunk to hit me?” “What man? Tell me, quick. I’ll get you more than half a sovereign.” She did not know how fierce her voice was till the boy started back from her. “It ain’t no business of yours,” he cried. “I say, you ain’t got nothing to do with the coppers, ’ave you?” he was on the defensive instantly, all ready to flee. “No; no!” she said, so gently that he believed her. “But if you’ll tell me, instead of them,” nodding at the big silent house, “I’ll get you more money than you ever saw in your life.” “Girls like you don’t have none,” he retorted, with a distrustful shiver. “I’ll get it for you in the morning. You needn’t let me out of your sight all night, not till it’s in your hand, if you’ll tell me all you know.” The boy gave a cheerful whirl. “Golly! I bet Billy Cook’ll be sick,” he exclaimed. “Do you mean it; hope you may die?” “Hope I may die,” she asserted gravely, her marvelous eyes, that even the child saw, bent on him. “But not here. Let’s walk on somewhere out of the rain. I’m cold.” “I’m always cold,” returned the small bootblack. “It ain’t nothin’ when you’re used to it. But we’d better keep movin’; cops comes round when you stands.” “Go on about the man,” she said shortly. “How do you know it was the day of the murder?” “Ho! I’m not blind. Why, you never see such a how d’ye do in your life. Cabs, and perlice, and reporters, and the cook screaming in the area. I knowed right enough, but I never knowed they were looking for no man till I come back to-day, and Billy Cook said so. He punched me, too, because he’d got my stand, and I wanted it. And when I said that ’arf-crown was mine, he punched me again. So I went to the house, and the man told me to get out with my lies. They’d had the square bootblack in a’ready. Billy Cook,” scornfully, “that never see the square in his life till I got took bad with brownkeeters. He didn’t see no man come out of the house, any day.” “Did you?” The great clock on the church-tower struck one. If the boy did not hurry it would be too late to-night for what was in her mind.