Viola listened during half a minute of the most agonising suspense; but no sound from without met her ears.
"It was a false alarm," she exclaimed; then applying her hand to the key, she turned it with ease, for fear alone had prevented the Rattlesnake from moving it.
In another instant the door was opened.
"Thank God!" cried Margaret Flathers, starting from her suppliant posture, and clutching the bag of gold beneath her left arm.
"Come—let us not lose a moment," said Viola; and she darted into the alley, followed by the Rattlesnake.
There was no one to oppose their egress; but they could scarcely believe that they were really safe even when they found themselves in the street.
And now they ran—they ran, as if that terrible individual, whom they both feared so profoundly, were at their heels;—they ran, doubting the fact, the one that she was free, the other that she was safe;—they ran—they ran, reckless of the way which they were pursuing, but each alike impressed with the conviction that it was impossible to place too great a distance between them and the dwelling of the Resurrection Man!
Margaret Flathers carried her treasure as if it were a thing of no weight: Viola Chichester forgot that she had neither bonnet nor shawl to protect her against the bitter chill of that wintry evening.
And thus, together, did they pursue their way—the virtuous wife and the abandoned woman,—the former thinking not what might be the character of her companion—the latter having now no curiosity to know the circumstances that had plunged the lady by her side into the captivity from which she had just been released.
At length they reached the New Church facing the Bethnal Green Road; and there they halted, both completely out of breath and exhausted.