Then she could make out that
he tried his key--that he was blowing into it--that he knocked it on the
nearest post to beat the dust out--that he took it under a lamp to look
at it--that he poked bits of stick into the lock to clear it--that
he peeped into the keyhole, first with one eye, and then with the
other--that he tried the key again--that he couldn't turn it, and what
was worse, couldn't get it out--that he bent it--that then it was much
less disposed to come out than before--that he gave it a mighty twist
and a great pull, and then it came out so suddenly that he staggered
backwards--that he kicked the door--that he shook it--finally, that he
smote his forehead, and sat down on the step in despair.
When this crisis had arrived, Miss Miggs, affecting to be exhausted
with terror, and to cling to the window-sill for support, put out her
nightcap, and demanded in a faint voice who was there.
Mr Tappertit cried 'Hush!' and, backing to the road, exhorted her in
frenzied pantomime to secrecy and silence.
'Tell me one thing,' said Miggs. 'Is it thieves?'
'No--no--no!' cried Mr Tappertit.
'Then,' said Miggs, more faintly than before, 'it's fire. Where is it,
sir? It's near this room, I know.
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