"Mortimer's in this, for a fiver.

I don't see how--I don't make head or tail of it; but the tail you've got hold of belongs to the wrong dog.

Kidnapping, is it?
A couple of children you want?
Suspect me, do you?
Well, suspect away.
_I_ don't mind.

I've got my hosses; and when we're loaded up you can climb on board the wagon, if you like, and we'll pay a call on Mortimer.
I bet he's your man; and the harder you pinch Mortimer to make him squeal, the better you'll please me." "Arthur Miles," demanded Tilda in a harsh whisper, "what're yer doin' 'ere ?" "Listening," answered the boy simply.
"I 'opes yer likes it!.

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