Presently there was a noise of some one going rapidly upstairs, and in a minute or two all was still.
The knocking grew louder and louder, and a curious crowd, attracted by the noise, gathered outside. The policemen had been sent round to the back to watch the garden, lest the bird should attempt to fly that way.
Mrs. Jarvis ran half-way up the stairs.
‘What am I to do!’ she cried. ‘They’ll burst the door in directly, and there’s a crowd half across the street.’
‘Open!’ answered a smothered voice that she could hardly recognise.
Mrs. Jarvis stepped to the door, and opened it.
‘Hoity-toity!’ she exclaimed, putting her arms akimbo; ‘what’s all this noise about? Are you the Taxes, or the Gas, or the Water?’
‘All right, mum,’ said the detective, coming in and shutting the door after him; ‘you’re fly, I see. We want the man who’s here—an escaped convict. Here’s my authority to search the house.’
Mrs. Jarvis looked at the detective’s card, her buxom form effectually blocking up the staircase.
‘Conwick!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, lawks a mussy, man, whatever should we do with a conwick here?’