(Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper):
Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret.

CHRISTIAN (still holding him):
What is it?

THE PICKPOCKET:
Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . .

CHRISTIAN (same play):
Well?

THE PICKPOCKET:
His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places--
and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . .

CHRISTIAN:
A hundred men! By whom posted?

THE PICKPOCKET:
I may not say--a secret. . .

CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders):
Oh!

THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity):
. . .Of the profession.

CHRISTIAN:
Where are they posted?