He grinned under the white eye so ghastly a counterfeit of friendly good-will that the woman shrank, and pulled at the wrist he held. "Lord love ye," he went on, holding tight to the wrist, "I ain't the bloke to round on a pal as is under a cloud. See what I might 'a' done, if I'd 'a' wanted. I might 'a' gone an' let out all sorts o' things, as you know very well yerself, at the inquest--both the inquests. But did I? Not me. Not a bit of it. _That_ ain't my way. No; I lay low, an' said nothing. What arter that? Why, there's fifty quid reward offered, fifty quid--a fortune to a pore bloke like me. An' all I got to do is to go and say 'Dan Ogle' to earn it--them two words an' no more. Ain't that the truth? D'y' hear, ain't that the truth?" He tugged at her wrist to extort an answer, and the woman's face was drawn with fear. But she made a shift to say, with elaborate carelessness, "Reward? What reward, George? I dunno nothin' about it." "Gr-r-r!" he growled, pushing the wrist back, but gripping it still. "That ain't 'andsome, not to a pal it ain't; not to a faithful pal as comes to do y' a good turn. You know all about it well enough; an' you needn't think as I don't know too. Blind, ain't I? Blind from a kid, but not a fool! You ought to know that by this time--not a fool. Look 'ere!"--with another jerk at the woman's arm--"look 'ere. The last time I was in this 'ere room there was me an' you an' Dan an' two men as is dead now, an' post-mortalled, an' inquested an' buried, wasn't there? Well, Dan chucked me out. I ain't bearin' no malice for that, mind ye--ain't I just give ye five bob, an' ain't I come to do ye a turn? I was chucked out, but ye don't s'pose I dunno what 'appened arter I was gone, do ye? Eh?" The room was grown darker, and though the table was moved, the shadow on the floor took its old place, and took its old shape, and grew; but it was no more abhorrent than the shadowy face with its sightless white eye close before hers, and the hand that held her wrist, and by it seemed to feel the pulse of her very mind. She struggled to her feet. "Let go my wrist," she said. "I'll light a candle. You can go on." "Don't light no candle on my account," he said, chuckling, as he let her hand drop. "It's a thing I never treat myself to. There's parties as is afraid o' the dark, they tell me--I'm used to it." She lit the candle, and set it where it lighted best the place of the shadow. Then she returned and stood by the chair she had been sitting in. "Go on," she said again. "What's this good turn you want to do me?"