“I am sure they would,” rejoined Oliver’s benefactress; “and Mr. Losberne has already been kind enough to promise that, when you are well enough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.”
“Has he, ma’am?” cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. “I don’t know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!”
In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of this expedition; and one morning he and Mr. Losberne set out accordingly in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.
“What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”
“That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That house!”
“Yes; well, what of it? Stop, coachman. Pull up here,” cried the doctor. “What of the house, my man—eh?”
“The thieves—the house they took me to,” whispered Oliver.
“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Halloa, there! let me out!” But before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.
“Halloa!” said a little, ugly hump-backed man, opening the door so suddenly that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. “What’s the matter here?”