But matters progressed so satisfactorily up stairs, that by five o’clock Mr Pouter departed, basket on back, with half a yard of saw sticking out, to tickle and scratch those whom he met, to whom on the pavement he was just such an agreeable obstacle to encounter as a British war chariot, with its scythed axletrees, must have been to all concerned. But Mr Dodd was placid, the door worked beautifully, and he determined to have every other door in the house seen to and re-adjusted. So Mr Dodd dined, and at last retired to bed, serene and happy in his expression.
That very night something happened.
It was midnight, and, save when the noise of some cab, conveying the Christmas folk home, could be heard, all was still. But there were voices to be heard in the attic of Number Nine. There was a candle on a chair beside the bed, and Cook and Mary were sitting up, the one listening, while the other slowly waded through the thrilling plot of the “to be continued” tale in the Penny Mystifier.
The night was cold, and shawls thrown over shoulders was the mode, while slowly see-sawing her body backwards and forwards in bed, Mary, after once reading, went back and epitomised the tale for Cook’s benefit, that lady not having been very clear upon two or three points.
“Then,” said Mary, “when she finds as her par won’t let her marry De Belleville, she sits by the open winder, with the snow rivalling her arm’s whiteness, and a lamenting of her hard fate, and it’s quite dark, and her lover comes and begs of her to fly with him.”
“Go in a fly,” said Cook, approvingly.
“No! no! go off with him,” said Mary.
“Ah! I see,” said Cook, “go on.”
“And, after being begged and prayed a deal, she says as she will, and he fetches the ladder; and, just as she’s done falling on his neck and weeping, a mysterious voice says—”
“Oh!” cried the domestics in horrified tones as they clung together, for in the stillness of the night there was a fearful cry from below stairs, followed by the noise of something heavy falling.