“A woman! what woman?” he faltered, apparently pulled up by my very abuse. “Why, the woman you call your wife—Pretty Polly—who is now in this city with a wealthy man to whom she is married. Her name is Mrs Harper now, and I suppose she feared that your claims on her might be awkward, and so employed Dirty Dick to prepare a job for you—that Leith Street affair which you mean to go to as soon as you leave this place, and at which I am to take you in the act, so that you may be booked for ten years at least. Now, smash out at me now, and say I’ve an interest in keeping you on the cross!” “My wife—Pretty Polly—living and married to another man!” he breathed, with a look positively frightful settling on his heavy features. “I—don’t—believe—a—word—of—it!” I folded my arms and said nothing. The idea was a new one to him; I would let it work. I had not long to wait. I could see the workings of the demon Jealousy in his face, in his twitching lips and flushed cheeks, in his clouded brow and clenched hands. “You’ve got a name for telling the truth,” he at last hoarsely observed, with a look of piteous agony on his haggard face, “but I must see the woman before I believe it. Tell me where she lives, or take me to her. The she-devil! Oh, if it’s only true!” “Rest content with my word. I shall not give you her address—at least not now. It wouldn’t be safe. When you are sober and calm you shall have it.” “I am sober,” he quickly returned; and he seemed to speak the truth, for every trace of drink had vanished like a flash, “and I am calm—as death. Give me her address!” I refused most positively, and at length he rose, deliberately put on his cap, and quietly walked out of the shop with the simple remark that he would see me again. I knew enough of Brettle’s character to warn me that the sooner Pretty Polly was got out of his reach the better it would be for her.