Her eyes went up to the windows of Uncle Matthew’s parlour:  and, while they rested there, the room within of a sudden grew bright.  Janet had entered it with a lamp, and, having set it down, came forward to draw the curtains and close the shutters.  At the same moment in the other window an arm went up to the curtain and the slim figure of Patty stood dark against the lamplight.  She stood for a moment gazing out upon the court; gazing, as it seemed to Hetty, straight down upon her.  Hetty came to a halt, crouching in the dusk against the wall.  Now that she knew of their arrival she had no wish to greet either her sister or her uncle:  nay, as her own dark shadow overtook her—­the thought of the drunkard at home in the lonely house—­she knew that she could not climb to that lighted room and kiss and welcome them.

As her sister’s hand drew the curtain, she turned and sped back down the court.  She broke into a run.  The pedestrians in the dim streets were as ghosts to her.  She ought not to have left him.  Heaven alone knew how long this fit would last; but while it lasted her place was beside him.  Twice, thrice she came to a dead stop, and panted with one hand at her breast, the other laid flat against a house-wall or the closed shutters of a shop, and so supporting her.  Men peered into her face, passed on, but turned their heads to stare back at her, not doubting her a loose woman the worse for drink, but pierced with wonder, if not with pity, at her extraordinary beauty.  She heeded them not, but always, as soon as she caught her breath again, ran on.

She turned the corner of Frith Street.  Heaven knows what she expected to see—­the house in a blaze, perhaps:  but the dingy thoroughfare lay quiet before her, with a shop here and there casting a feeble light across the paving-stones.  The murmur of the streets, and with it all sense of human help within call, fell away and were lost.  She must face the horror alone.

The house was dark—­all but one window, behind the yellow blind of which a light shone.  She drew out her latchkey and at first fumbled at the opening with a shaking hand.  Then she recalled her courage, found the latch at once, slipped in the key and pushed the door open.

No sound:  the stairs stretched up before her into pitchy darkness.  She held her breath; tried to listen.  Still no sound but one in her ears—­the thump-thump of her own overstrained heart.  She closed the door as softly as she could, and mounted the first flight.

Hark! the sound of a step above, followed by a faint glimmer of light.  At the turn of the stairs she looked up and faced him.  He stood on the landing outside their bedroom door, with a candle held aloft.  His eyes were blazing.

He must be met quietly, and quietly she went up.  “See how quick I have been!” she said gaily, and her voice did not shake.  She passed in by the open door.  He followed her stupidly and set the candle down.