“Shall I light the candle?” the woman asked in a whisper. Neither replied, for there was a heavy foot on the stairs. It came nearer. A hand tried the door, then knocked loudly.
“Mrs. Candy,” cried a stranger. The three crouched together, terror-stricken, holding their breath. Pennyloaf pressed her husband in an agonised embrace.
“Mrs. Candy, you’re wanted on business. Open the door. If you don’t open, we shall force it.”
“No—no!” Pennyloaf whispered in her mother’s ear. “They shan’t come in! Don’t stir.”
“Are you going to open the door?”
It was a different speaker,—brief, stern. Ten seconds, and there came a tremendous crash; the crazy door, the whole wall, quivered and cracked and groaned. The crash was repeated, and effectually; with a sound of ripping wood the door flew open and a light streamed into the room.
Useless, Pennyloaf, useless. That fierce kick, making ruin of your rotten barrier, is dealt with the whole force of Law, of Society;
