Presently Miss Lillycrop raised herself on one elbow, and glared in the direction of her friend’s bed so awfully that her eyes all but shone in the dark.
“Did you hear that, dear?” she asked, in a low whisper.
“Of course I did,” replied Miss Stivergill aloud. “Hush! listen.”
They listened and heard “that” again. There could be no doubt about it—a curious scratching sound at the dining-room window immediately below theirs.
“Rats,” said Miss Stivergill in a low voice.
“Oh! I do hope so,” whispered Miss Lillycrop. She entertained an inexpressible loathing of rats, but compared with burglars they were as bosom friends whom she would have welcomed with a glad shudder.
In a few minutes the scratching ceased and a bolt or spring snapped. The wildest of rats never made a sound like that! Miss Lillycrop sat bolt up in her bed, transfixed with horror, and could dimly see her friend spring from her couch and dart across the room like a ghostly phantom.
“Lilly, if you scream,” said Miss Stivergill, in a voice so low and stern that it caused her blood to curdle, “I’ll do something awful to you.—Get up!”
The command was peremptory. Miss Lillycrop obeyed.
“Here, catch hold of the bell-handle—so. Your other hand—there—keep the tongue fast in it, and don’t ring till I give the word.”