‘Oh, why didn’t you send mother for me?’
The door opened. It was Mrs. Candy who entered. She slammed the door, turned the key, and exclaimed in a low voice of alarm:
‘Bob, there’s the p’lice downstairs! They come just this minute. There’s one gone to the back-door, and there’s one talkin’ to Mrs. Hope at the front.’
‘Then they’ve followed Pennyloaf,’ he replied, in a tone of despair. ‘They’ve followed Pennyloaf.’
It was the truth. She had been watched all day, and was now tracked to Shooter’s Gardens, to this house. Mrs. Candy struck a match, and for an instant illuminated the wretched room; she looked at the two, and they at length saw each other’s faces. Then the little flame was extinguished, and a red spot marked the place where the remnant of the match lay.
‘Shall I light the candle?’ the woman asked in a whisper.
Neither replied, for there was a heavy foot on the stairs. It came nearer. A hand tried the door, then knocked loudly.
‘Mrs. Candy,’ cried a stranger.
The three crouched together, terror-stricken, holding their breath. Pennyloaf pressed her husband in an agonised embrace.
‘Mrs. Candy, you’re wanted on business. Open the door. If you don’t open, we shall force it.’