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