"What did you mean?" she cried, her grasp tightening. "Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!"
"Nothin'," he mumbled, trying to break her hold. "Lemme go, I—I didn't mean anything—"
"Tell me what you meant—tell me, tell me!"
"No—I can't—I—"
His voice failed suddenly, his whole frame grew tense and rigid, and lifting a stiff arm he pointed a trembling finger toward the open doorway.
"Hush—hush!" he panted, "oh, for God's sake, hush! There—don't you hear—there's some one outside on th' landing—footsteps—hark! They're coming to our door! They're stoppin' outside—oh, my God, it's come at—"
The word ended in a scream, drowned all at once in a thunderous knocking on the outer door, and Spike, crouching upon his knees, clutched at her as she rose.
"Don't,—don't open—the door!" he gasped, while Hermione gazed at him, terrified by his terror, as again the thunderous summons was heard. Then, despite the boy's passionate prayers and desperate, clutching hands, she broke from him, and hastening into the little passage, opened the door.
Upon the threshold stood a little old man, very smartly dressed, who saluted her with a gallant flourish of his dapper straw hat and bowed with his two small and glittering patent leather shoes posed at position number one in waltzing.
"Ma'am," said he, "miss, respectful greetin's. Your name's Hermione, ain't it?"