‘I wisht I had your thumb undher my grinder,’ said the fiddler, through his teeth, ‘whoever you are.’

But the rest was lost in another and a louder summons at the hall-door, and a voice of authority cried sternly,

’Why don’t you open the door?—­hollo! there—­I can’t stay here all night.’

‘Open to him, Madam, I recommend you,’ said Dirty Davy, in a hard whisper; ‘will I go?’

‘Not a step; not a word;’ and Mary Matchwell griped his wrist.

But a window in Mrs. Nutter’s room was opened, and Moggy’s voice cried out—­

‘Don’t go, Sir; for the love o’ goodness, don’t go.  Is it Father Roach that’s in it?’

‘’Tis I, woman—­Mr. Lowe—­open the door, I’ve a word or two to say.’

CHAPTER XCII.

THE WHER-WOLF.

About a quarter of an hour before this, Mr. Paul Dangerfield was packing two trunks in his little parlour, and burning letters industriously in the fire, when his keen ear caught a sound at which a prophetic instinct within him vibrated alarm.  A minute or two before he had heard a stealthy footstep outside.  Then he heard the cook walk along the passage, muttering to herself, to the hall-door, where there arose a whispering.  He glanced round his shoulder at the window.  It was barred.  Then lifting the table and its load lightly from before him, he stood erect, fronting the door, and listening intently.  Two steps on tip-toe brought him to it, and he placed his fingers on the key.  But he recollected a better way.  There was one of those bolts that rise and fall perpendicularly in a series of rings, and bar or open the door by a touch to a rope connected with it by a wire and a crank or two.

He let the bolt softly drop into its place; the rope was within easy reach, and with his spectacles gleaming white on the door, he kept humming a desultory tune, like a man over some listless occupation.

Mr. Paul Dangerfield was listening intently, and stepped as softly as a cat.  Then, with a motion almost elegant, he dropt his right hand lightly into his coat-pocket, where it lay still in ambuscade.

There came a puffing night air along the passage, and rattled the door; then a quiet shutting of the hall-door, and a shuffling and breathing near the parlour.

Dangerfield, humming his idle tune with a white and sharpening face, and a gaze that never swerved, extended his delicately-shaped fingers to the rope, and held it in his left hand.  At this moment the door-handle was suddenly turned outside, and the door sustained a violent jerk.

‘Who’s there?’ demanded the harsh, prompt accents of Dangerfield, suspending his minstrelsy.  ‘I’m busy.’

‘Open the door—­we’ve a piece of intelligence to gi’e ye.’

‘Certainly—­but don’t be tedious.’ (He drew the string, and the bolt shot up).  ‘Come in, Sir.’

The door flew open; several strange faces presented themselves on the threshold, and at the same instant, a stern voice exclaimed—­