Spargo had never seen such an old woman as this in his life.  She was dressed respectably, better than respectably.  Her gown was good; her bonnet was smart; her smaller fittings were good.  But her face was evil; it showed unmistakable signs of a long devotion to the bottle; the old eyes leered and ogled, the old lips were wicked.  Spargo felt a sense of disgust almost amounting to nausea, but he was going to hear what the old harridan had to say and he tried not to look what he felt.

“Well?” he said, almost roughly.  “Well?”

“Well, young man, there you are,” said his new acquaintance.  “Let us go inside, young man; there’s a quiet little place where a lady can sit and take her drop of gin—­I’ll show you.  And if you’re good to me, I’ll tell you something about that cat that you were talking to just now.  But you’ll give me a little matter to put in my pocket, young man?  Old ladies like me have a right to buy little comforts, you know, little comforts.”

Spargo followed this extraordinary person into a small parlour within; the attendant who came in response to a ring showed no astonishment at her presence; he also seemed to know exactly what she required, which was a certain brand of gin, sweetened, and warm.  And Spargo watched her curiously as with shaking hand she pushed up the veil which hid little of her wicked old face, and lifted the glass to her mouth with a zest which was not thirst but pure greed of liquor.  Almost instantly he saw a new light steal into her eyes, and she laughed in a voice that grew clearer with every sound she made.

“Ah, young man!” she said with a confidential nudge of the elbow that made Spargo long to get up and fly.  “I wanted that!  It’s done me good.  When I’ve finished that, you’ll pay for another for me—­and perhaps another?  They’ll do me still more good.  And you’ll give me a little matter of money, won’t you, young man?”

“Not till I know what I’m giving it for,” replied Spargo.

“You’ll be giving it because I’m going to tell you that if it’s made worth my while I can tell you, or somebody that sent you, more about Jane Baylis than anybody in the world.  I’m not going to tell you that now, young man—­I’m sure you don’t carry in your pocket what I shall want for my secret, not you, by the look of you!  I’m only going to show you that I have the secret.  Eh?”

“Who are you?” asked Spargo.

The woman leered and chuckled.  “What are you going to give me, young man?” she asked.

Spargo put his fingers in his pocket and pulled out two half-sovereigns.

“Look here,” he said, showing his companion the coins, “if you can tell me anything of importance you shall have these.  But no trifling, now.  And no wasting of time.  If you have anything to tell, out with it!”

The woman stretched out a trembling, claw-like hand.

“But let me hold one of those, young man!” she implored.  “Let me hold one of the beautiful bits of gold.  I shall tell you all the better if I hold one of them.  Let me—­there’s a good young gentleman.”