“About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?” said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
“Yes. Wot about it?” inquired Sikes.
“Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,” said the Jew. “He knows what I mean, Nancy; don’t he?”
“No, he don’t,” sneered Mr. Sikes. “Or he won’t, and that’s the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?”
“Hush, Bill, hush!” said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; “somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.”
“Let ’em hear!” said Sikes; “I don’t care.” But as Mr. Sikes did care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.
“There, there,” said the Jew, coaxingly. “It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!” said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.
“Not at all,” replied Sikes coldly.
“Not to be done at all!” echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
“No, not at all,” rejoined Sikes. “At least it can’t be a put-up job, as we expected.”
“Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,” said the Jew, turning pale with anger. “Don’t tell me!”