During the journey neither had spoken. Each was busy with his own thoughts.
Gurth knocked a certain number of times, and Heckett, lying tossing on the little bed in the back room, knew who was there, for he did not have his door opened at all hours to every one.
Lately Egerton had been a constant visitor, for Heckett—too ill now to move—had confided his schemes to him, and entrusted him with the disposal of his secrets, and his effects when he should be dead.
Heckett was very ill to-night, and Bess was still sitting up with him. She had been out on business, and had not come back till late.
George had watched by the old man all day, and had gone to bed tired out.
‘It’s Egerton,’ said the old dog-fancier, lifting his quick ears from the pillow; ‘that’s his knock. What’s in the wind now?
‘Go and let him in, missus—there’s a dear!’
Bess went to the door and started back. There were two men outside.
‘It’s all right,’ said Egerton. ‘This is a friend. Come in.’
Gurth led the way iuto Heckett’s room, and Marston followed him.