"Careful!" Peter said. "The Monk moves pretty softly, and we don't want to be overheard. We'd better talk of something else."
This they did while the slow hours dragged past. In spite of the gun in her pocket the long wait began to get on Margaret's nerves, and by eleven o'clock she had no need to assume an expression of anxiety. Her eyes had begun to look a little strained, and she was very pale.
Then they heard that padding footstep, and Margaret instinctively grasped Peter's arm. It came nearer, and then stopped. The shutter slid back, and once more they saw the cowled face at the grille. For perhaps fifteen tense seconds the eyes they could see through the slits observed them. Then, just as Peter had thumbed down the safety catch of the pistol behind him, the shutter closed again, and the footsteps passed on.
Margaret was shaking. "I don't think I can bear it for much longer," she whispered.
They heard the grate of a key, and knew that the Monk had unlocked the door into the printing-room. There was a long, long pause. Once they thought they heard the soft footfall again, but they could not be certain.
Another hour crept by. Margaret felt cold, and rather sick. "It's - it's like waiting at the dentist's when you're going to have a tooth out," she whispered, trying to smile.
Even as she said it they heard footsteps approaching, and the murmur of voices.
"The rest of the gang," Peter said. "Feeling all right, Sis?"
She grimaced, but nodded.
The voices drew closer: they heard the same man who had brought the water on the night previous, say: "Well, this is my last night, and I don't care who hears me say it. Things are getting a sight too hot for me."