Spargo turned on his disreputable and dissolute companion with all his journalistic energies and instincts roused.  He had not been sure, since entering the “King of Madagascar,” that he was going to hear anything material to the Middle Temple Murder; he had more than once feared that this old gin-drinking harridan was deceiving him, for the purpose of extracting drink and money from him.  But now, at the mere prospect of getting important information from her, he forgot all about Mother Gutch’s unfortunate propensities, evil eyes, and sodden face; he only saw in her somebody who could tell him something.  He turned on her eagerly.

“You say that John Maitland’s son didn’t die!” he exclaimed.

“The boy did not die,” replied Mother Gutch.

“And that you know where he is?” asked Spargo.

Mother Gutch shook her head.

“I didn’t say that I know where he is, young man,” she replied.  “I said I knew what she did with him.”

“What, then?” demanded Spargo.

Mother Gutch drew herself up in a vast assumption of dignity, and favoured Spargo with a look.

“That’s the secret, young man,” she said.  “I’m willing to sell that secret, but not for two half-sovereigns and two or three drops of cold gin.  If Maitland left all that money you told Jane Baylis of, when I was listening to you from behind the hedge, my secret’s worth something.”

Spargo suddenly remembered his bit of bluff to Miss Baylis.  Here was an unexpected result of it.

“Nobody but me can help you to trace Maitland’s boy,” continued Mother Gutch, “and I shall expect to be paid accordingly.  That’s plain language, young man.”

Spargo considered the situation in silence for a minute or two.  Could this wretched, bibulous old woman really be in possession of a secret which would lead to the solving of the mystery of the Middle Temple Murder?  Well, it would be a fine thing for the Watchman if the clearing up of everything came through one of its men.  And the Watchman was noted for being generous even to extravagance in laying out money on all sorts of objects:  it had spent money like water on much less serious matters than this.

“How much do you want for your secret?” he suddenly asked, turning to his companion.

Mother Gutch began to smooth out a pleat in her gown.  It was really wonderful to Spargo to find how very sober and normal this old harridan had become; he did not understand that her nerves had been all a-quiver and on edge when he first met her, and that a resort to her favourite form of alcohol in liberal quantity had calmed and quickened them; secretly he was regarding her with astonishment as the most extraordinary old person he had ever met, and he was almost afraid of her as he waited for her decision.  At last Mother Gutch spoke.