All silent once more but the grating noise as the key was softly pushed into the lock. Then slowly—gradually—by a tremendous effort over self, when she was longing to rush out, the key was turned, creaking loudly in the old worn lock. But now the bolt shot back, the handle was turned, and she stood in the passage, after the door had resented the movement by giving two or three loud cracks.
She stood there ready dressed, just in time to hear a sharp voice that she at once recognised exclaim—
“What’s that?”
Then a chair made a loud scraping noise upon the floor below, as if some one had suddenly risen.
There was not a moment to lose; there were steps already upon the kitchen-stairs as she ran along the passage to the front door. But there was an obstacle here: the door was locked, and a great chain up, whose ring was at the bottom of a spiral.
To turn back the lock was but the work of an instant; and then she seized the chain and tried to raise it from the spiral fastening, with steps coming nearer at every turn: one—two—three—would it never come off? Must she be dragged back again when she was so near to liberty? It was a lifelong task condensed in a few seconds. The last turn—the chain falling with a heavy clang—the door dragged open, as a firm hand grasped her shoulder, and tried to draw her back. Then a wild, despairing shriek rang down Borton Street, as a momentary struggle ensued for liberty.