Although she sometimes asked a question, she never seemed to expect a reply, but rambled on as if she were in the habit of doing so when no one but herself was present.

“Indeed,” she pursued, “I positively doubt sometimes, I do assure you, whether while matters are still unsettled, and the sixth or Great Seal still prevails, I may not one day be found lying stark and senseless here, as I have found so many birds!”

Richard, answering what he saw in Ada’s compassionate eyes, took the opportunity of laying some money, softly and unobserved, on the chimney-piece.  We all drew nearer to the cages, feigning to examine the birds.

“I can’t allow them to sing much,” said the little old lady, “for (you’ll think this curious) I find my mind confused by the idea that they are singing while I am following the arguments in court.  And my mind requires to be so very clear, you know!  Another time, I’ll tell you their names.  Not at present.  On a day of such good omen, they shall sing as much as they like.  In honour of youth,” a smile and curtsy, “hope,” a smile and curtsy, “and beauty,” a smile and curtsy.  “There!  We’ll let in the full light.”

The birds began to stir and chirp.

“I cannot admit the air freely,” said the little old lady—­the room was close, and would have been the better for it—­“because the cat you saw downstairs, called Lady Jane, is greedy for their lives.  She crouches on the parapet outside for hours and hours.  I have discovered,” whispering mysteriously, “that her natural cruelty is sharpened by a jealous fear of their regaining their liberty.  In consequence of the judgment I expect being shortly given.  She is sly and full of malice.  I half believe, sometimes, that she is no cat, but the wolf of the old saying.  It is so very difficult to keep her from the door.”

Some neighbouring bells, reminding the poor soul that it was half-past nine, did more for us in the way of bringing our visit to an end than we could easily have done for ourselves.  She hurriedly took up her little bag of documents, which she had laid upon the table on coming in, and asked if we were also going into court.  On our answering no, and that we would on no account detain her, she opened the door to attend us downstairs.

“With such an omen, it is even more necessary than usual that I should be there before the Chancellor comes in,” said she, “for he might mention my case the first thing.  I have a presentiment that he will mention it the first thing this morning.”

She stopped to tell us in a whisper as we were going down that the whole house was filled with strange lumber which her landlord had bought piecemeal and had no wish to sell, in consequence of being a little M. This was on the first floor.  But she had made a previous stoppage on the second floor and had silently pointed at a dark door there.

“The only other lodger,” she now whispered in explanation, “a law-writer.  The children in the lanes here say he has sold himself to the devil.  I don’t know what he can have done with the money.  Hush!”