“Yes, sir, it seems like it,” she called back again, without turning her head. “Jane Cross must have gone to sleep.”
Had she been a footman with a carriage full of ladies in court trains behind him, she could not have given a louder or longer knock than she gave now. There was no bell to the front door at No. 7. But the knock remained unanswered and the door unopened.
“Matilda at No. 7 is locked out,” I said, laughing, bringing in my head and speaking to the parlour generally. “She has been to fetch the beer for supper, and can’t get in again.”
“The beer for supper?” repeated Mrs. Blair. “They generally go out at the back gate to fetch that, Johnny.”
“Anyhow, she took the front way to-night. I saw her come out.”
Another tremendous knock. The Squire put his good old nose round the window-post; two boys and a lady, passing by, halted a minute to look on. It was getting exciting, and I ran out. She was still at the door, which stood in the middle of the house, between the sitting-rooms on each side.
“So you have got the key of the street, Matilda!”
“I can’t make it out,” she said; “what Jane Cross can be about, or why the door should be closed at all. I left it on the latch.”
“Somebody has slipped in to make love to her. Your friend, the milkman, perhaps.”