“At last!” breathed Mr. Priestley on the doorstep.
“We’ll s-soon be warm n-now,” chattered Laura. “Is pneumonia very unp-pleasant, Mr. Mullins?”
Evidently the absent landlord possessed a proper feeling for the emergencies of life. In one minute his wife returned, an unmistakable file in her hand.
“There you are, sir,” she beamed. “It’s the only one. Will it do?”
Mr. Priestley took it in a quivering grasp. “Oh, yes,” he said. “It’ll do. Thank you.”
As they vanished hastily from her sight the landlady contrived to throw another understanding smile at Laura. This smile said, as eloquently as a smile may: “We have to humour them, don’t we? You and I know better than to go playing with files, but if they like it—well, bless their funny old hearts! Let them enjoy themselves.” It was a very eloquent smile indeed.
The next moment the two were safely round the corner in the shadows, the precious file gripped tightly in Mr. Priestley’s chilled hand. He set to work on a link of the chain which held the two cuffs together. Their position was not an easy one and the rasping of the file chafed both their wrists unpleasantly, but it was no time to worry over little things like that.
Ten minutes later he was still working. But by now he was nice and warm.
Laura, on the other hand, was still cold, and getting colder every minute.
“Is it going to take a dreadful time?” she asked at last, her lips blue and her teeth chattering volubly.