“It depends what it is, Mr. Gilverthwaite,” I answered.  “I should like to do anything I can for you.”

“You wouldn’t do it for nothing,” he put in sharply.  “I’ll make it well worth your while.  See here!”

He took his hand away from my wrist, put it under his pillow, and drew out a bank-note, which he unfolded before me.

“Ten pound!” he said.  “It’s yours, if you’ll do a bit of a job for me—­in private.  Ten pound’ll be useful to you.  What do you say, now?”

“That it depends on what it is,” said I.  “I’d be as glad of ten pounds as anybody, but I must know first what I’m expected to do for it.”

“It’s an easy enough thing to do,” he replied.  “Only it’s got to be done this very night, and I’m laid here, and can’t do it.  You can do it, without danger, and at little trouble—­only—­it must be done private.”

“You want me to do something that nobody’s to know about?” I asked.

“Precisely!” said he.  “Nobody!  Not even your mother—­for even the best of women have tongues.”

I hesitated a little—­something warned me that there was more in all this than I saw or understood at the moment.

“I’ll promise this, Mr. Gilverthwaite,” I said presently.  “If you’ll tell me now what it is you want, I’ll keep that a dead secret from anybody for ever.  Whether I’ll do it or not’ll depend on the nature of your communication.”

“Well spoken, lad!” he answered, with a feeble laugh.  “You’ve the makings of a good lawyer, anyway.  Well, now, it’s this—­do you know this neighbourhood well?”

“I’ve never known any other,” said I.

“Do you know where Till meets Tweed?” he asked.

“As well as I know my own mother’s door!” I answered.

“You know where that old—­what do they call it?—­chapel, cell, something of that nature, is?” he asked again.

“Aye!—­well enough, Mr. Gilverthwaite,” I answered him.  “Ever since I was in breeches!”

“Well,” said he, “if I was my own man, I ought to meet another man near there this very night.  And—­here I am!”

“You want me to meet this other man?” I asked.

“I’m offering you ten pound if you will,” he answered, with a quick look.  “Aye, that is what I’m wanting!”

“To do—­what?” I inquired.

“Simple enough,” he said.  “Nothing to do but to meet him, to give him a word that’ll establish what they term your bony fides, and a message from me that I’ll have you learn by heart before you go.  No more!”

“There’s no danger in it?” I asked.

“Not a spice of danger!” he asserted.  “Not half as much as you’d find in serving a writ.”

“You seem inclined to pay very handsomely for it, all the same,” I remarked, still feeling a bit suspicious.

“And for a simple reason,” he retorted.  “I must have some one to do the job—­aye, if it costs twenty pound!  Somebody must meet this friend o’ mine, and tonight—­and why shouldn’t you have ten pound as well as another?”