“Hush—­hush!” he panted, “oh, for God’s sake, hush!  There—­don’t you hear—­there’s some one outside on th’ landing—­footsteps—­hark!  They’re coming to our door!  They’re stoppin’ outside—­oh, my God, it’s come at—­”

The word ended in a scream, drowned all at once in a thunderous knocking on the outer door, and Spike, crouching upon his knees, clutched at her as she rose.

“Don’t,—­don’t open—­the door!” he gasped, while Hermione gazed at him, terrified by his terror, as again the thunderous summons was heard.  Then, despite the boy’s passionate prayers and desperate, clutching hands, she broke from him, and hastening into the little passage, opened the door.

Upon the threshold stood a little old man, very smartly dressed, who saluted her with a gallant flourish of his dapper straw hat and bowed with his two small and glittering patent leather shoes posed at position number one in waltzing.

“Ma’am,” said he, “miss, respectful greetin’s.  Your name’s Hermione, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” she answered, wondering.

“Knowed it was.  And a partic’ler fine gal too!  Though not ‘oldin’ wi’ marridge, I don’t blame the Guv—­’e always ’ad a quick eye for beauty—­like me.”

“But who are you?  What do you want—­”

“Miss, I want you—­leastways—­’e does.  Been callin’ for you the last three days ’e has, ever since ’e ketched one as fair doubled ’im up—­”

“I—­I don’t understand.  Who are you?”

“A admirer of the Guv, ma’am.  A trusted friend of ‘is, miss—­come t’ take ye to ‘is poor, yearnin’ arms, lady—­”

“But who—­oh, what do you mean?”

“Mr. Ravenslee, ma’am.”

“Mr. Ravenslee!” she echoed, her colour changing.

“Yes.  Y’ see—­he’s dyin’, miss!”

Hermione gasped and leaned against the wall as if suddenly faint and sick, perceiving which, the Old Un promptly set his arm about her waist and led her unresisting into the parlour.  There, having aided her tenderly into a chair and nodded to pale-faced Spike, he sighed, shook his ancient head, and continued: 

“Ho, Lor lumme, lady, it fair wrung my old ’eart to ’ave to tell ye, but, ’aving to tell ye (Joe couldn’t) I told ye almighty quick to get it over—­sharp an’ quick’s my motter.  Fate’s crool ’ard when Fate takes the gloves off, miss, an’ I know as Fate’s been an’ took ye one in the wind wot’s fair doubled you up—­but take time, miss, take time—­throw back your pretty ‘ead, breathe deep an’ reg’lar, an’ you’ll soon be strong enough to go another round.  If I’d got a towel handy I’d fan ye a bit—­not ‘avin’ none, no matter.  Fate’s ‘ard on you, so fair an’ young, miss, but Fate’s been ’arder on the Guv—­ketched the pore young Guv a fair spiflicator—­”

“Oh, please—­please,” cried Hermione, reaching out appealing hands, “oh, tell me, is he hurt—­sick—­dying?  Oh, quick, quick—­tell me!”

“Lady, ma’am—­my pretty dear,” said the Old Un, taking those pleading hands to pat them tenderly, “that’s what I’m tryin’ to do.  The Guv ain’t dead yet—­no, not—­yet—­”