CHAPTER XVIII.
A LIFE-AND-DEATH STRUGGLE.
It was an hour past midnight, and the fog had deepened so that a man could scarcely see a yard before him. On the North Finchley Road it lay particularly thick, and the sky and surrounding space seemed to be blotted out—as they certainly were from two wayfarers who plodded their way slowly onward through the darkness. They were a man and a woman, who, although they were wrapped in gloom, cast apprehensive glances on all sides, and frequently stopped to listen for sounds of footsteps.
"Jeremiah, my love," said the woman, shivering, "why did you insist upon our leaving our nice warm quarters on such a night? It will be the death of me."
"I'll be the death of you," growled the man, "if you call me by my name! Mind that, you old fool!"
"Don't speak to me so hard!" implored the woman; "no one can hear us. The night ain't fit for a dog to be out in it."
"That's the reason we're out in it," said Jeremiah, with a curse. "Hold your row, if you don't want me to do you a mischief!"
"Oh!" murmured Mrs. Pamflett, "that you should say such things to me after all I've done for you!"
"After all you've done for me! Yes, you have done for me! If it hadn't been for you dragging at my heels I should have been out of this infernal scrape weeks ago. You're a nice mother, you are! What's the use of such as you, I'd like to know?"