“Well, you think to get money for the dirty work of betraying him?”
“Not a penny,” he vociferated, with a tremendous oath, “and there’ll
be no betraying about it. Only I thought you’d be always glad to hear
the news or get a tip. You helped me so much in that last fix that I
haven’t forgot it;” and the villain tried to put on a sentimental and
grateful look by way of drawing a red herring across my path.
I was not deceived, but Dick’s next words were lost to me. I was
thinking hard, and trying to account for Dick’s sudden zeal in the
cause of law and order. He did not want money—I was bound to believe
that at least;—could he have an old grudge at Brettle, or was this
freak of treachery only the result of a quarrel?
I could not see how it could be either, for Brettle was not the man
to associate much with a cur like Dick, but I resolved to make some
inquiries with a view to laying bare the informer’s motive.
Brettle was a man who, in spite of the fact that we were
professionally enemies, called out from within me a deal of
admiration and sympathy. He was a powerfully-built fellow, still
under thirty, and had once been handsome. He had not been born into a
life of crime, but had been a hard-working silversmith, led off his
feet and ruined by a pretty woman. The woman was really a beauty, but
with the figure and face of an angel she had the heart of a devil.
She was known as Pretty Polly, and Brettle conceived such a passion
for her that he actually married her. Brettle’s dash and daring
carried him on for a long time unscathed, but at length he was caught
and had a smart sentence. Pretty Polly supported herself as a barmaid
during the interval, but being detected in helping herself from the
till, she went into prison just as Bob came out. When her three
months were finished they got together again. Brettle had another
spell of good luck, till in a moment altogether unexpected by him he
was neatly trapped, and laid past for seven years. I had the taking
of him, but I was quite ignorant of the source of the information
upon which I had acted. There had been a traitor, but I did not
trouble to seek out the person, when the act brought grist to my mill.
Now, in surveying Dirty Dick’s shifty countenance, the thought came
to me for the first time—Could he, that insignificant looking wretch,
have been the betrayer of Brettle before his last conviction? I could
scarcely credit it, but if it was he, then the fact would point to
a long-standing grudge and a revengeful feeling not yet satiated.
Now, I had never given Dick credit for brain enough to conceive and
nourish a good hatred, and one does not care to discover a flaw in
his own estimate of another’s character.
After a little further conversation, from which I learned that it
was not yet settled how Brettle was to distinguish himself, I parted
with Dick, he kindly volunteering to “see me again” as soon as he had
important information to tender.
For a day or two after I could not be called idle. The foremost
question in my mind was—Why does Dirty Dick wish Brettle laid up
for ten years? and all my work was in the direction of a feasible
explanation or answer. I searched, and questioned, and ferreted in
every conceivable direction, but was only left more puzzled than
before. Dick, I found, had had no quarrel with Brettle, nor could I
discover that he had any grudge against the ticket-of-leave man. I
discovered also that it was absolutely impossible that Dick could
have been the cause of Brettle’s last capture, as at the time Dick
had himself been fulfilling a three months’ sentence for theft.
I happened one afternoon to meet Brettle himself, and, though he
generally showed great hostility to me, and never exchanged words
with me if he could avoid it, I thought I would have a word with him
in passing.
“How are you getting on Bob?” I pleasantly asked, before he could
hurry past.
“Not getting on at all,” he gloomily answered. “I’ve been trying to
get work, but can’t.”
I opened my eyes to their widest, and for a moment could scarcely
speak.
“What kind of work?” I cautiously inquired, thinking he might mean
his adopted trade of housebreaking.
“Any kind—anything to keep life in me,” he cried, with some
bitterness. “I’m sick of prison, and don’t mean to go inside of one
again if I can live on the square.”
I could scarcely trust my own senses. I had never expected such words
out of his mouth; and then, after the hint I had received from Dirty
Dick, I was doubly suspicious, and must have looked the feeling.
Could it be possible that he was trying to deceive me for some
purpose? I could not believe it. It was quite out of his line. He was
not of the stuff out of which a good hypocrite could be made.
“I’m glad to hear that you’ve come to your senses,” I dryly remarked.
“What has given you the notion?”
“I don’t know, but the spunk’s all gone out of me,” he dejectedly
answered. “I haven’t my wife now.”
“Oh, indeed! what has become of her?” I asked with fresh interest.
“Gone,” he said, with a sorrowful shake of the head and a quiver of
the lip.
“Gone where?”
“Gone dead, I’m afraid,” he huskily answered. “If she’d been alive
she would have met me whenever I got out. She worshipped the very
ground I trod on. I hear she went on the stage as a ballet-girl after
I was laid up, and that and the loss of me killed her, I suppose. We
had a bit of a tiff before I was took. I was so hanged jealous of
her—but that was nothing. The like of her doesn’t walk the earth.
True as steel, and she loved me so!”
I said nothing; for if I had spoken I should have had to say that if
the loss of Pretty Polly made him adopt an honest life, her absence
would be a blessing.