"This is the street," said the woman.
"Oh! this is it, Mrs. Bunce—eh?" returned Mr. Dykes, the Bow Street officer, rubbing his nose with the knob of his stout ash-stick, while his countenance, on which the bright moon-beams played, showed an expression of calm determination.
"Yes: and that's the house—there: the ninth on t'other side of the way," added Mrs. Bunce.
"Well—now we don't want you no more, ma'am," said Dykes; "'cos women is all very well in their place; and darling creatur's they are too. But when a grab is to be made, they're best at home, a-bed and asleep. So good night to you, ma'am."
"Good night, gentlemen all," responded Mrs. Bunce; and she hurried away.
"Now, Bingham and you fellers," said Mr. Dykes, "we must mind what we're up to; for we shan't catch a weasel asleep. You, Bingham, take one of the runners and get round to the back of the house. Me and t'other chaps will make the entry in front. But we shan't stir a peg for one quarter of an hour; and by that time you'll be at your post."
"All right," returned Mr. Bingham; and this individual accordingly moved off, followed by one of the subordinate runners.
In the meantime, Tom Rainford was sleeping, not dreaming of danger, in the arms of the beautiful Jewess.
Charley Watts was cradled in a little bed made up for him in the warmest corner of the room.
A light burnt in the apartment, where naught was heard save the slow, regular breathing of the sleepers.