Vraik still shook the warning finger. "Lyin' agin, an' at yr'age, I'm ashamed of y'. I noo y' was an Anarchist, but not---- "Hush!" entreated Trall, with another glance round. "Some one may hear!" "Not they, ole cove! there ain't none of 'em about here." "You don't know--you never know," moaned Trall, shaking and white. "They hide everywhere--they see everything. They listen and punish." "Lor'! t' 'ear y' tork one 'ud think this was Africay." "It is worse much worse. There men fight openly; here the Brotherhood stabs in the dark. Hush! Oh, hush!" "Have they stabbed Mr. Maller in th' dark?" "No; he is safe, quite safe!" "Oh!" said Vraik, briskly; "y' know that much, do you? Now where is he?" "I don't know? don't ask me." "Oh, won't I? but I will." Vraik bent across the table and spoke rapidly in Trall's ear. "Mr. Maller is in that Poplar Street crib." "No, no, he is not!" Trall shrank back. "Ole cove, why d'y' lie? He is there. Y' knows it. If y' don't tell me 'bout him, blest if I don't have the perlice into that den." "You--you would not dare----" "I mightn't, but the peelers would. Lor'"--Vraik wriggled himself--"jes' to think of the coppers raidin' that crib, an' you bein' blown kite-high for splitting on yer pals. Wot a Sun'y School picter!" "I have told you nothing," moaned Trall, thoroughly terrified. "Don't I know that?" snapped Vraik. "Ole cove, I knows enough 'bout you an' them t'make y' tell m'all. If y' don't, I'll go strite to the perlice an' 'ave a raid on yer den. Then I'll say 't was you rounded on the lot." Trall moaned again and wrung his hands. Drink and terrorism had destroyed the man's brain and nerve. The mere suggestion that Vraik would tell the police about the Soho house was enough for him. If a raid were made there, and he were denounced as an informer his life would be at the mercy of those who were truly merciless. "Ave some more comfort," said Vraik, who was watching the beads of perspiration roll off his victim's forehead, "then y' can tell me 'bout Maller." More whisky was brought. Trall dispensed with all water now. He saw that he was in a cleft stick, and since Vraik knew so much, the only way to save himself was to tell him more. Moreover, Trall hated Drabble, and--if he could do so with safety to himself--would with pleasure ruin him. He stretched a trembling hand across the table. "Swear you will keep my name out of the business," he said, looking round again. "I swear," said Vraik, promptly. "Bless y', I don't want t'arm y'. I on'y wish t'save Mr. Maller, cos I won't git m' money paid if I don't. Now where is he? Tell me strite." "In that house--in Soho." "Is he a prisoner, ole cove?" "Yes; he said too much, so Drabble and Mrs. Arne had him locked up." "Drabble and Mrs. Arne!" repeated Vraik. "Who's they?" Trall shut up promptly. "Oh, you don't know so much if you don't know who they are."