“Look outside and see if they’ve come up yet,” requested Mr. Leigh, tying the flaps of his cap under his chin. “We don’t want no bother or nothing.”
Ely Place being clear at the Hoxton Street end, Mr. Leigh, his head well down, went out of the doorway. He shook hands with Bobbie.
“You’re a capital boy,” whispered Mr. Leigh, approvingly. “If I’d got anything smaller than a tanner about me I’d give it you. Be good!”
Bobbie closed the door, and his heart fluttering, went upstairs to the front bedroom. The Duchess was asleep, dressed, on her bed; her high-heeled boots ludicrously obtrusive. Bobbie aroused her and gave her the news.
“My old man’s safe, then? What about Bat Miller?” she asked, sitting up, affrightedly.
“We must watch out of the winder,” ordered Bobbie. “If he comes first we’ll wave him to be off; if he comes after they’re ’ere he’ll be nabbed.”
“You’ve got a ’ead on you,” said the Duchess, trembling, “that would be a credit to a Prime Minister. Come to the winder and—Let me ’old your ’and, I’m all of a shake.”
“They can’t touch us, can they?” asked Bobbie, stroking the woman’s thin trembling wrist.
“Hope not,” said the Duchess, nervously. “But there, you never know what the law can do. Fancy her turning nark jest through a fit of jealousy. Is that Miller talking to one of the neighbours?”