The knocking came again--a regular rat-tat-tat.
'That's no servants. They wouldn't make that row.'
'You can never tell. Nowadays they make what row they please; they fancy themselves. Brutes!'
'Visitors, perhaps.'
'Confound them, whoever it is!'
They spoke in whispers, an appreciable pause between each man's speaking, as if each in turn waited for something to happen. Mr Burton was outwardly the most self-possessed, being the kind of man who would probably smile as he mounted the gallows. The Flyman had his eyes nearly shut, his fists clenched, his shoulders a little hunched, as if gathering himself together to resist a coming attack. Mr Thomas Cox was visibly tremulous; his great head twitched upon his shoulders; he was apparently in danger of physical collapse. It was curious to observe the contrasting attitudes of the three men as they stood about the recumbent woman.
The knocking was repeated, still more loudly, as if the knocker waxed impatient.
'We shall have to let 'em in. Anyhow, we shall have to see who's there. They'll knock the door down.'
This was the Flyman. Mr Cox suggested an alternative.
'Can't we--can't we get away? Isn't there another way out?'