She raised herself on her elbow, listening; the cloak slipped noiselessly to the floor. Quickly her arm shot out to the bell-rope: she pulled it violently; waited, expectant; and pulled again.
A slatternly figure appeared—a woman of middle-age—her arms, bared to the elbows, smeared with dirt; a grimy apron over her knees.
“What's up?—I was smashin' coal,” she explained.
“Come here,” hoarsely whispered the girl—“here—no—nearer—quite close. Where's he gone?”
“Gone? 'oo?”
“That man that was here.”
“I s'ppose 'ee's in the downstairs room. I ain't 'eard the front door slam.”
“And Dick, where's he?”
“They're both in there together, I s'ppose.”
“I want you to go down—quietly—without making a noise—listen at the door—come up, and tell me what they're saying.”