Finally Fardell stopped, and without hesitation knocked at the door of one of them. It was opened by a man in shirt-sleeves, holding a tallow candle in his hand.
"What yer want?" he inquired, suspiciously.
"Your lodger," Fardell answered, pushing past him and drawing Mannering into the room. "Where is he?"
The man jerked his thumb upwards.
"Where he won't be long," he answered, shortly. "The likes of 'im having visitors, and one a toff, too. Say, are yer going to pay his rent?"
"We may do that," Fardell answered. "Is he upstairs?"
"Ay!" the man answered, shuffling away. "Pay 'is rent, and yer can chuck 'im out of the winder, if yer like!"
They climbed the crazy staircase. Fardell opened the door of the room above without even the formality of knocking. An old man sat there, bending over a table, half dressed. Before him were several sheets of paper.
"I believe we're in time," Fardell muttered, half to himself. "Parkins, is that you?" he asked, in a louder tone.
The old man looked up and blinked at them. He shaded his eyes with one hand. The other he laid flat upon the papers before him. He was old, blear-eyed, unkempt.