“Halloa there!” cried a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man looking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.
“Stand still, a minute,” cried the voice; “I’ll be with you directly.” With which the head disappeared, and the door closed.
“Is that the man?” asked Mr. Bumble’s good lady.
Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
“Then, mind what I told you,” said the matron: “and be careful to say as little as you can, or you’ll betray us at once.”
Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near which they stood, and beckoned them inwards.
“Come in!” he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. “Don’t keep me here!”
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind, followed: obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.
“What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?” said Monks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind them.