Upon this, a dry old man appeared, whom Mr Dorrit thought he identified by his gaiters, as the rusty screw. The woman was under apprehensions of the dry old man, for she whisked her apron away as he approached, and disclosed a pale affrighted face. ‘Open the door, you fool,’ said the old man; ‘and let the gentleman in.’
Mr Dorrit, not without a glance over his shoulder towards his driver and the cabriolet, walked into the dim hall. ‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Flintwinch, ‘you can ask anything here you think proper; there are no secrets here, sir.’
Before a reply could be made, a strong stern voice, though a woman’s, called from above, ‘Who is it?’
‘Who is it?’ returned Jeremiah. ‘More inquiries. A gentleman from Italy.’
‘Bring him up here!’
Mr Flintwinch muttered, as if he deemed that unnecessary; but, turning to Mr Dorrit, said, ‘Mrs Clennam. She will do as she likes. I’ll show you the way.’ He then preceded Mr Dorrit up the blackened staircase; that gentleman, not unnaturally looking behind him on the road, saw the woman following, with her apron thrown over her head again in her former ghastly manner.
Mrs Clennam had her books open on her little table. ‘Oh!’ said she abruptly, as she eyed her visitor with a steady look. ‘You are from Italy, sir, are you. Well?’
Mr Dorrit was at a loss for any more distinct rejoinder at the moment than ‘Ha—well?’
‘Where is this missing man? Have you come to give us information where he is? I hope you have?’
‘So far from it, I—hum—have come to seek information.’