"Give me your candle," replied Mr. Fauntleroy, taking it from her hand. "He has the same rooms as usual, I suppose; first floor."
Mr. Fauntleroy went up the stairs, and the girl stood at the bottom, and watched and listened. She did not approve of the proceedings, but did not dare to check them; for Mr. Fauntleroy was a great man in Westerbury, and their assize lodger, the serjeant, was a greater.
Tap—tap—tap: at Serjeant Wrangle's door.
No response.
Tap—tap—tap, louder.
"Who the deuce is that?" called out the serjeant, who was only dignified in his wig and gown. "Is it you, Eliza? what do you want? It's not morning, is it?"
"'Tain't me, sir," screamed out Eliza, who had now followed Mr. Fauntleroy. "I told the gentleman as you was dead tired and wasn't to be woke up till eight in the morning, but he took my light and would come up."
"I must see you, Serjeant," said Mr. Fauntleroy.
"See me! I'm in bed and asleep. Who the dickens is it?"
"Mr. Fauntleroy. Don't you know my voice? Can I come in?"