On this night, though, I think the rooms upstairs must have been empty, and Mr Ibbs''s sister stayed quiet; and perhaps because of the quiet, the babies kept asleep. Being used to the noise, I lay awake. I lay and thought again of cruel Bill Sykes; and of Nancy, dead at his feet. From some house nearby there sounded a man''s voice, cursing. Then a church bell struck the hour—the chimes came queerly across the windy streets. I wondered if Flora''s slapped cheek still hurt her. I wondered how near to the Borough was Clerkenwell; and how quick the way would seem, to a man with a stick.
I had a warm imagination, even then. When there came footsteps in Lant Street, that stopped outside the window; and when the foot-
steps were followed by the whining of a dog, the scratching of the dog''s claws, the careful turning of the handle of our shop door, I started up off my pillow and might have screamed—except that before I could the dog gave a bark, and the bark had a catch to it, that I thought I knew: it was not the pink-eyed monster from the theatre, but our own dog, Jack. He could fight like a brick. Then there came a whistle. Bill Sykes never whistled so sweet. The lips were Mr Ibbs''s. He had been out for a hot meat pudding for his and Mrs Sucksby''s supper.