In the meantime we will continue our narrative.
Mr. Greenwood pursued his way, and, having crossed over to the southern side of the New Cut, repaired to a small row of private houses of which this famous thoroughfare can boast at the extremity joining the Blackfriars' Road.
There he stopped for a moment beneath a lamp to consult a memorandum in his pocket-book; and, having thereby refreshed his memory in respect to the address of which he was in search, he proceeded to knock at the door of a house close by.
A dirty servant-girl opened it just as far as a chain inside would permit; and protruding her smutty face, said, with strange abruptness, "Well, what is it?"
"Does Mr. Pennywhiffe live here?" demanded Greenwood.
"No—he don't; and, if he did, you wouldn't come in—'cos I know it's all your gammon," returned that most uninteresting specimen of the female-domestic race.
"Why not?" exclaimed Greenwood, indignantly. "Whom do you take me for?"
"For what you are," replied the girl.
"And what am I, then?"
"Why—a execution, to be sure."