"No; the door's bolted."
"Then just come and undo it. For, see you, I must."
"Can't it wait?"
"If it could I should not have disturbed you. Open the door and you shall judge for yourself."
Serjeant Wrangle was heard to tumble out of bed in a lump, and undo the bolt of the door. Eliza concluded that he was in his night attire, and modestly threw her apron over her face. Mr. Fauntleroy entered.
"The most extraordinary thing has turned up in Carr versus Carr," cried he. "Never had such a piece of luck, just in the nick of time, in all my practice."
"Do shut the door," responded Serjeant Wrangle; "I shall catch the shivers."
Mr. Fauntleroy shut the door, shutting out Eliza, who forthwith sat down on the top stair, and wished she had ten ears. "Have you not a dressing-gown to put on?" cried he to the serjeant.
"I'll listen in bed," replied the serjeant, vaulting into it.
A whole hour did that ill-used Eliza sit on the stairs, and not a syllable could she distinguish, listen as she would, nothing but an eager murmuring of voices. When Mr. Fauntleroy came out, he put the candle in her hand and she attended him to the door, but not in a gracious mood.