"I'm goin' this very minit to pump one of 'em," said Vraik, looking at his watch; "a swipy ole cove called Trall. Mr. Maller, he interdooced me to him, an' tole me t'look arter him. Th' cove's loose in the shingle, so I may get somethin' out of him." "Has this man Trall anything to do with the Poplar Street den?" "He's shoe-black and bottle-washer there, I thinks," replied Vraik, jumping up. "I'd like to fin' all about that crib, I would, an' put a stop to their blowin's up. There'd be noospaper pars and lots of coin in a job like that." "It isn't a bad idea," said Jorran, reflectively; "keep your weather-eye open, Vraik, and let me know when I can sail in to help." Vraik winked and whistled through his teeth, after which pantomime he swaggered into the street, conscious of an exceptionally smart appearance. But he never promenaded the main thoroughfares. Publicity was contrary to his principles of business. Like the rat he was, he slunk through alleys and by-streets, down passages, and into disreputable quarters, until he found himself in Poplar Street. Here he strolled casually past No. 49, and took a stealthy survey of its battered front. Then he dived into the squalid depths of Soho, to cut the trail between himself and Poplar Street, and came to the surface in the greasy little parlour of a public-house in Bloomsbury. Here Jeremiah Trall, dissipated, but still gentlemanly of aspect, was seated at an oilcloth-covered table with a glass of whisky before him. He had arrived at his "cross-drop," and was in no very good humour when his visitor sneaked into the dingy room. "I have finished three glasses while waiting for you," said he, in a complaining voice, "so you will have to pay. I have no money." "Y'never have anything except a thirst," replied Vraik, sitting carefully down on a horsehair sofa. "Lanlor', 'nother Scotch cole, for this gentleman, and gin for me--smart as y'know how." Provided with such refreshment, the two men came to business; that is, Vraik did, for Trall's energies were in the main devoted to a dreamy contemplation of the liquor before him. "I'm glad you've turned up, Mr. Trall," said Vraik, raising his glass; "here's m'respec's t'you. Now you an' me's got to tork. D'want t'make money?" "I should not mind," replied Trall, on whom the fourth glass was now exerting its soothing influence. "How can I earn it?" Vraik came to the point at once. "By tellin' me 'bout Mr. Maller," said he, bluntly. The question had a paralyzing effect on Trall. He dropped his glass and his jaw at the same time, turned a dingy yellow colour, and cast a terrified glance round the four corners of the room. "I--I--I do not know anything about Mr. Mallow," he gasped. Vraik's eyes glittered, and he lifted a lean admonitory forefinger. "Mr. Maller he interdooced us pals, an' he tol' you I was helpin' him with this case as you knows of; so I arsks you agin, ole cove. Where's Mr. Maller?" "I--I don't know!"