But Mrs. Varden was a lady of uncertain temper, and she was on this occasion so ill-tempered, and put herself to so much anxiety and agitation, aided and abetted by her shrewish hand-maiden, Miggs, that next morning she was, she said, too much indisposed to rise. The disconsolate locksmith had, therefore, to deliver himself of his story of the night's experiences to his daughter, buxom, bewitching Dolly, the very pink and pattern of good looks, and the despair of the youth of the neighbourhood.
Calling next day in the evening, Gabriel Varden learnt the wounded man was better, and would shortly be removed.
Varden chatted as an old friend with Barnaby's mother. He knew the Maypole story of the widow Rudge--how her husband, employed at Chigwell, and his master had been murdered; and how her son, born upon the very day the deed was known, bore upon his wrist a smear of blood but half washed out.
"Why, what's that?" said the locksmith suddenly. "Is that Barnaby tapping at the door?"
"No," returned the widow; "it was in the street, I think. Hark! 'Tis someone knocking softly at the shutter."
"Some thief or ruffian," said the locksmith. "Give me a light."
"No, no," she returned hastily. "I would rather go myself, alone."
She left the room, and Varden heard the sound of whispers without. Then the words "My God!" came, tittered in a voice dreadful to hear.
Varden rushed out. A look of terror was on the woman's face, and before her stood a man, of sinister appearance, whom the locksmith had passed on the road from Chigwell the previous night.
The man fled, but the locksmith was after him and would have held him but for the widow, who clutched his arms.