When all had been still for some time he resolved to go upstairs again and try the door, for his breathing grew more and more painful, and there was a whirling in his head which made him fear that he might become insensible.  To rise was more difficult than he had imagined; his head overweighted him, all but caused him to plunge forward; he groped this way and that with his hands, seeking vainly for something to cling to on the whitewashed wall.  In his depth of utter misery he gave way and sobbed several times.  Then once more he had the warm taste of blood in his mouth.  Terror-stricken, he staggered into the house.

This time a voice answered to his knock.  He opened the door.

The room contained no article of furniture.  In one corner lay some rags, and on the mantel-piece stood a tin teapot, two cups, and a plate.  There was no fire, but a few pieces of wood lay near the hearth, and at the bottom of the open cupboard remained a very small supply of coals.  A candle made fast in the neck of a bottle was the source of light.

On the floor was sitting, or lying, an animated object, indescribable; Bob knew it for Mrs. Candy.  Her eyes looked up at him apprehensively.

‘I want to stay the night over, if you’ll let me.’ he said, when he had closed the door.  ’I’ve got to hide away; nobody mustn’t know as I’m here.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the woman replied, in a voice which was horrible to hear.

Then she paid no more attention to him, but leaned her head upon her hand and began a regular moaning, as if she suffered some dull, persistent pain.

Bob crept up to the wall and let himself sink there.  He could not reflect for more than a minute or two continuously; his brain then became a mere confused whirl.  In one of the intervals of his perfect consciousness he asked Mrs. Candy if Stephen would come here to-night.  She did not heed him till he had twice repeated the question, and then she started and looked at him in wild fear.

‘Will Stephen be coming?’

‘Stephen?  Yes, yes.  I shouldn’t wonder.’

She seemed to fall asleep as soon as she had spoken; her bead dropped heavily on the boards.

Not long after midnight the potman made his appearance.  As always, on returning from his sixteen-hour day of work, he was all but insensible with fatigue.  Entering the room, he turned his white face with an expression of stupid wonderment to the corner in which Bob lay.  The latter raised himself to a sitting posture.

‘That you, Bob Hewett?’

‘I want to stop here over the night,’ replied the other, speaking with difficulty.  ‘I can’t go home.  There’s something up.’

‘With Pennyloaf?’

’No.  I’ve got to hide away.  And I’m feeling bad—­awful bad.  Have you got anything to drink?’

Stephen, having listened with a face of a somnambulist, went to the mantel-piece and looked into the teapot.  It was empty.