"I am Mrs. Torrens, gentlemen," said that lady, who having overheard the preceding dialogue, now came forward; "and I suppose that you are the persons sent by the auctioneer about the sale of my furniture in Old Burlington Street."
"Well—not exactly that neither, ma'am," returned the individual with the ash-stick. "The fact is we're officers——"
"Officers!" shrieked the miserable woman, an appalling change coming over her.
"Yes—and we've got a warrant agin you for forgery, ma'am," added the Bow Street runner, who was no other than the reader's old acquaintance Mr. Dykes.
Mrs. Torrens uttered a dreadful scream, and fell senseless on the floor.
"Come, young o'oman, bustle about, and get your missus some water, and vinegar, and so on," exclaimed Dykes. "Here, Bingham, my boy, lend a helping hand, and we'll take the poor creatur into the parlour."
The two officers accordingly raised the insensible woman and carried her into the adjacent room, where they deposited her on the sofa—that sofa which had proved the death-bed of her paramour! In the meantime the servant-maid, though almost bewildered by the dreadful occurrences of the morning, hastened to procure the necessary articles to aid in the recovery of her mistress; and in a few minutes Mrs. Torrens opened her eyes.
Gazing wildly around her, she exclaimed, "Where am I?"—then, encountering the sinister looks of the two runners, she again uttered a piercing scream, and clasping her hands together, murmured, "My God! my God!"
For a full sense of all the tremendous horror of her situation burst upon her; and there was a world of mental anguish in those ejaculations.
"She's a fine o'oman," whispered Dykes to his friend, while the good-natured servant endeavoured to console her mistress.