"Do you see that?" he asked.
"Aye," she answered, "it's a half-sov'rin."
"I'll give it to you," he said, "if you'll tell me what he says and what he does. You're sharp enow to have seen summat, and I'll give it you if you'll tell me."
He did not care what impression he made on her or how he entangled himself. He only thought of one thing.
"Tell me what he says and what he does," he repeated, "and I'll give it to you."
Janey rose from her stool in such a hurry that it lost its balance and fell over.
"I—I dunnot want it!" she cried. "I dunnot want it. I can na mak' thee out!"
"You're not as sharp as I took you for, if you don't want it," he answered. "You'll not earn another as easy, my lass."
Only stern common sense rescued her from the weakness of backing out of the room into the next apartment.
"I dunnot know what tha'rt drivin' at," she said. "I tell thee—I dunnot know nowt."
"Does he never say," he put it to her, "that he's been there—and that he's seen her—and that she's sat and talked—and that he's looked at her—and listened—and thought over it afterward?"
This was the last straw. Bewilderment turned to contempt.
"That would na be worth ten shillin'," she said. "Tha knows he's been theer, an' tha knows he's seen her, an' tha knows he could na see her wi'out lookin' at her. I dunnot see as theer's owt i' lookin' at her, or i' listenin' neyther. Wheer's th' use o' givin ten shillin' to hear summat yo' know yo'rsen?" There's nowt i' that!"
"Has he ever said it?" he persisted.
