She swung out of the kitchen, sped swiftly upstairs, found a hat and cloak, and slipped from the house. But she did not go towards Lizzie’s. She went into East India Dock Road and across to a narrow courtyard. Leaning against a post at its entrance was a youth of about eighteen, a frayed Woodbine drooping from his lips. “That you, Monico?” she asked, peering through the gloom. “You’ve clicked.” “D’you know where Wiggy is? Go’n find ’im for me.” The youth departed, and presently a greasy figure shuffled out of the courtyard; a figure known and hated and feared in that district; Wiggy, the copper’s nark. He looked up at the woman, who had drawn a purple veil across her face. “Wodyeh want?” She told him. For three minutes she held him in talk. Then she disappeared as swiftly as she had come, disappeared in the direction of Pennyfields. At the corner of Pennyfields is a fried-fish bar. She entered. “D’you know a boy called Ding-Dong—comes in here every night? Big, fair-haired.” “Yerss, I know ’im.” “Has he been in yet?” “Nit. I’m expectin’ ’im, though. ’As supper ’ere every night ’bout this time.” “That’s right. Well, when he comes, will you tell him—and say it’s most particular—that they’ve changed the time. It was to be half-past twelve, but they’ve changed it to one o’clock. Just tell ’im that, will you? He’ll understand. One o’clock ’stead of half-past twelve. See?” “Right-o. I’ll see ’e gets it.” “Thanks.” And homeward she went, calling on the way for the two bottles of beer which had been the ostensible purpose of her errand. Tom still sat where she had left him, and refused any supper. He was going out, he said, and would have supper with some friends. She needn’t sit up for him. So she took the two bottles up to her bedroom and sat in a hammock chair, drinking stout, which she found very comforting, and waiting anxiously for the hour when Tom would depart. At five minutes to twelve she heard the door slam, and she knew that revenge was very near. Punishment would now swiftly fall upon the hated Tom the Tinker, and freedom would be hers and the joy of Ding-Dong’s continual presence. She opened the second bottle and drank to her new life. Oh, she was a smart girl, she knew; she was the wily one; she had ’em all beaten. Life was just beginning for her, and, under the influence of the stout, she dreamed a hazy dream of rejuvenation; how she would blossom into new strength and beauty under the admiring eyes and the careful ministrations of her Ding-Dong. Farewell the dingy little back kitchen. Farewell the life of slavery and contempt. Farewell the wretched folk among whom she had been forced to live while Tom pursued his dirty work. Hail to the new world and the new life! Her head nodded, and for a few minutes she dozed. She was awakened by the sound of a creaking window. Then footsteps—stealthy, stuttering steps. They came up the stairway.