“Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?” asked Monks.
“Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,” answered Mrs. Bumble: who did not want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.
“Humph!” said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; “there may be money’s worth to get, eh?”
“Perhaps there may,” was the composed reply.
“Something that was taken from her,” said Monks. “Something that she wore. Something that—”
“You had better bid,” interrupted Mrs. Bumble. “I have heard enough, already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.”
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes: which he directed towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded, what sum was required for the disclosure.
“What’s it worth to you?” asked the woman, as collectedly as before.
“It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,” replied Monks. “Speak out, and let me know which.”
“Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds in gold,” said the woman; “and I’ll tell you all I know. Not before.”
“Five-and-twenty pounds!” exclaimed Monks, drawing back.