And now the young men's conversation was abruptly ended. A loud, strident voice was heard from the head of the wide oak staircase, which was at some distance from the narrow lobby.
'Chatterton, what do you mean, gossiping like any old woman at the street door? Where's Sam?'
'Asleep,' was the short reply.
'Wake him, then. Bid him attend to the door. It's not your business that I know of.'
'I should have thought it was, as I share his bed in the cellar. I should have thought it was share and share alike.'
This was said with infinite scorn, betrayed in the tone of the musical voice as well as by the contemptuous tossing back of the thick hair and shrug of the shoulders, which were seen in sharp outline under a threadbare coat hastily thrown on.
'Hold your tongue or I'll find means to make you. Who is it at the door?'
'Come down and see for yourself, sir,' was the final reply, as Thomas Chatterton departed whence he came and disappeared in the lower regions of the house.
The door was still open, and Jack Henderson still stood there. He ventured to advance to the foot of the stairs, and looking up he could dimly discern the figure of a gentleman in a long nightgown, his head surmounted by a huge nightcap, with a tassel dangling from its crown.
Mr Lambert held to the banister of the second flight of wide stairs, and peered down at Jack, who looked up at him.