He next examined the windows. Each was securely fastened.
"Where'm I goin' to sleep?" he muttered, as once more he tip-toed up the path.
After a further long deliberation, he lifted the knocker, gave three gentle taps—and waited. As nothing happened, he tried four taps of greater strength. These, in turn, produced no response. Then he gave a knock suggestive of a telegraph boy, or a registered letter. At each fresh effort he stepped back to get a view of the bedroom window.
He fancied that the postman-cum-telegraph-boy's knock had produced a slight fluttering of the curtain. He followed it up with something that might have been the police, or a fire.
As he stepped back, the bedroom-window was thrown up, and Mrs. Bindle's head appeared.
"What's the matter?" she cried.
"I can't get in," said Bindle.
"I know you can't," was the uncompromising response, "and I don't mean you shall."
"But where'm I goin' to sleep?" he demanded, anxiety in his voice.
"That's for you to settle."