"Well, I will," she said, suddenly softening again. "I took a shine to
you when you came in, an' I says to myself, 'I'll save that young
fellow,' an' I done it. And I'll do more. Mr. Wilton was a fine
gentleman, an' I'd do something, if I could, to git even with those
murderin' gutter-pickers that laid him out on a slab."

She hesitated, and looked around at the shadows thrown by the
flickering candle.

"Well?" I said impatiently. "Who is the boy, and where is he?"

"Never you mind that, young fellow. Let me tell you what I know. Then
maybe we'll have time to go into the things I don't know."

It was of no use to urge her. I bowed my assent to her terms.

"I'll name no names," she said. "My throat can be cut as quick as
yours, and maybe a damned sight quicker."

Mother Borton had among her failings a weakness for profanity. I have
omitted most of her references to sacred and other subjects of the kind
in transcribing her remarks.

"The ones that has the boy means all right. They're rich. The ones as
is looking for the boy is all wrong. They'll be rich if they gits him."

"How?"

"Why, I don't know," said Mother Borton. "I'm tellin' you what Henry
Wilton told me."