“And who on earth is that, my precious old nettle?”
The old woman answered by a gesture of sharp impatience, and moved toward the door.
“Stop that,” cried Turner, placing himself on the narrow threshold, and brandishing the glossy boot with one hand. “No one passes in here till I know what his business is. Speak up now, my precious old beauty. What’s your name? Who do you want? What on earth do you mean by coming here at all?”
The old woman stood on the threshold alone, eyeing him keenly, and glancing now and then with the cunning of her race on each side of his person, to measure the possibility of passing him. But Turner was equally vigilant, and manfully kept his post, boot in hand.
“Better come to terms at once: no one gets through here without giving a passport, I can tell you that,” said Turner. “Is it me you come after?”
“You!” sneered the old woman, and her thin lip curled upward, revealing the sharp, hound-like teeth beneath. “You!”
“And why not, she-wolf? It wouldn’t be the first of woman-kind that has run after the gentleman before you.”
“I want the young gentlemen—the Busne who lodges here. Let me go by, for I will see him!”
“Easy, easy,” persisted Turner, giving a semi-circular sweep with his boot. “There is but one lodger here, and that is my lord. You can’t see him, because he is in bed.”
“No matter: he must get up then!”