"Give me my clothes, and let me go; you've no right to keep me here."
Mr. Jenkins was apparently speechless, but his quicker-witted wife was voluble enough.
"Certainly, my dear. No one wants to keep you, lovey. You pay us what you owe and you're as free as the air!"
"I don't owe you anything."
"Not anything for a young gentleman like you; it's only six shillings, my dear."
"Six shillings!"
"Yes, six shillings. Would you like your bill, my dear? Jenkins, go and get the young gentleman his bill."
"You're a lot of thieves!"
"Oh, thieves are we? Very well, if you like to think us so, my dear. But I shouldn't have thought that a young gentleman like you would have liked to rob poor people of the money he owes for his board and lodging. And if you talk about thieves, my dear, Jenkins will go for a policeman, and a policeman will soon show you who's the thief, if you don't pay us what you owe, my lovey. And I shouldn't be surprised if, when he heard as how you'd runned away, the policeman wasn't to take and lock you up at once, my pet. Now, Jenkins, you come along with me, and while I makes up the young gentleman's bill you go and fetch a policeman, because as he thinks we're thieves, he do."
While the lady delivered herself of this voluble string of observations she had gradually approached the door. Before Bertie had perceived her design, she had pushed her husband through the door, and was through herself; the door was shut, the key turned in the lock, and Bertie was a prisoner.