BRODIE. Bow Street?

JEAN. I thocht ye would hear me. Ye think little o' me; but
it's mebbe a braw thing for you that I think sae muckle o'
William Brodie . . . ill as it sets me.

BRODIE. [You don't know what is on my mind, Jeannie, else you
would forgive me.] Bow Street?

JEAN. It's the man Hunt: him that was here yestreen for the
Fiscal.

BRODIE. Hunt?

JEAN. He kens a hantle. He . . . Ye maunna be angered wi' me,
Wullie! I said what I shouldna.

BRODIE. Said? Said what?

JEAN. Just that ye were a guid frien' to me. He made believe he
was awful sorry for me, because ye gied me nae siller; and I
said, 'Wha tellt him that?' and that he lee'd.

BRODIE. God knows he did! What next?

JEAN. He was that soft-spoken, butter wouldna melt in his mouth;
and he keept aye harp, harpin'; but after that let out, he got
neither black nor white frae me. Just that ae word and nae mair;
and at the hinder end he just speired straucht out, whaur it was
ye got your siller frae.