“Somebody shall pay for all this, though,” cried D. Wragg, “as I said afore, and as I’ll say half a score o’ times.”
As he spoke, he looked full at Sir Francis, as if identifying him with the “somebody” who should be made to pay, although at the present time no mean sum of the baronet’s money had made its way into his pockets. But at last, seeing that Sergeant Falkner would not be trifled with, and that in another moment the door or doors would be kicked down, he produced the keys with a great many protestations, ending at last in a perfect whine of misery, one that strangely reminded the eager bystanders of the dogs below.
But the keys produced, D. Wragg’s importance decreased on the instant; for though there were those present who trembled at the thought of the door being thrown back, the majority were devoured by curiosity—the morbid curiosity which used to take a crowd to an execution, and even at the present day attracts hundreds to the Old Bailey that they may catch a glimpse of the black flag, and imagine for themselves the horrors going on behind the grim black stony walls.
There were no stony walls here though—only a few slight boards between the gazers and the mystery whose solution they were so eager to read.
“Here! stop him, will you!” cried the sergeant. “Have you any brains at all, Smith?”
P.C. Smith raised his hand to his head, as if to feel whether those thought-producers—brains—were really there; but he contented himself with a vicious scratch, as he once more took hold of D. Wragg, that gentleman having made another attempt to limp away.
“Don’t you make no mistake,” half-whimpered the dealer, rubbing his hands together, bending down as if in pain, and limping about to the extent of his tether—to wit, his own arm and that of the policeman. “I’ll be squared for this; just you see if I ain’t.”
“Very well—very well,” exclaimed the sergeant, with something of excitement in his tones; “only don’t make quite so much noise about it. Now then,” he cried, as he unlocked the fastening, and threw open the rickety door, whose rusty hinges creaked dismally, while the door itself was stopped, when little more than ajar, by the warped framework, which forced one corner upon the floor.
“Now I hope you’re happy,” said D. Wragg.
“Not yet—not yet,” said the sergeant, “but we mean to get there soon. Now then, pass him here, Smith. That’s right. Now Mr Wragg, you go first, and we’ll follow.”