“You will assail him at the instant that I pounce upon Torrens?” said the old woman, with a bitter malignity in her tone, as she already gloated in anticipation upon the vengeance which she hoped to wreak upon her husband.
“Perform your part, ma’am—do all I have told you,” observed Jack Rily; “and leave the rest to me. And now are you ready?”
“Quite,” was the reply. “In which direction do we proceed?”
“The house is in Stamford Street,” answered the Doctor. “But you had now better follow me at a short distance.”
With these words, the man turned round, and proceeded along the narrow lane into the Blackfriars Road, up which he wended his way until he reached the corner of Stamford Street, where he looked back to satisfy himself that Mrs. Mortimer was in his track. He beheld her, by the light of the lamps, at a short distance behind; and, turning into Stamford Street, he was duly followed by her. Halting for a moment, he stooped down, gathered a few small pebbles from the side of the road joining the kerb-stone, and threw them at a window in the area of the dilapidated house which stood third from the corner. He then walked on a few paces, picked up some more little stones and hard crusted dirt, and turning back, met Mrs. Mortimer just opposite the house alluded to. The second volley was discharged at the window; and then they both stationed themselves at the door of the tenement, Mrs. Mortimer being placed in the most convenient position to give an answer to any summons that might issue from within.
The door was opened an inch or two; and the old woman, feigning the tone of a younger female, whispered hastily, “It’s me and the Doctor.” Thereupon the chain fell inside, and the door was opened half-way, Vitriol Bob standing behind it.
Mrs. Mortimer passed hastily in, followed by Jack Rily; and Vitriol Bob, closing the door noiselessly, readjusted the chain.
“Take care, Poll,” he said, in a hoarse and low tone: “don’t be in such a devil of a hurry to get down them stairs—’cos there’s somethink in the door-way of the kitchen that you might stumble over.”
“What is it, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, hastily; for inasmuch as the real truth flashed to his mind in an instant, he feared lest Mrs. Mortimer should likewise suspect the fact, and, being thrown off her guard, betray herself by some sudden exclamation.
“What is it?—why, a stiff ’un,” responded Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling laugh which sounded horribly in the midst of the total darkness that prevailed in the passage and on the stairs. “I s’pose Poll has let you into the business, since you’ve come along with her,” continued the man; “and though I don’t see what right she had to tell you anythink about it, I ain’t sorry you have come—’cos you can help me to bury the old feller, and you shall have your reglars.”