He opened the front door, and Perdita, wishing him “good night” bounded forth first into the open air--for she felt relieved at escaping from the miser’s cheerless abode:--her mother followed more slowly--and just as she passed by Percival, who stood on the threshold officiously holding the candle, the light streamed fully on the countenance of the old woman. At that same instant Mrs. Dyer--the widow who lived at the next house--was returning home from a neighbour’s; and she caught a complete view of the face of Mrs. Fitzhardinge. It struck the good woman at the moment that she had seldom beheld such a repulsive, sinister countenance: but she was accustomed to see strange-looking people visit the miser’s abode;--and the circumstance therefore made no particular impression on her mind. She merely said “Good night, sir,” to the miser, and forthwith entered her own abode. Percival’s door closed at the same instant; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge having overtaken her daughter, the two retraced their way to the City Road, whence they took a cab to Suffolk Street. CHAPTER CXXXIX. THE MISER ALONE IN HIS DWELLING. Having carefully barred and bolted the street-door, Percival entered the front room, and assured himself that the shutters were safely fastened. He then returned to the back parlour; and, seating himself at the table, proceeded to examine the contents of his cash-box. [Illustration] He looked at the note of hand which he had received that night, and which bore the signature of _Marston_--for, in compliance with the suggestion of Mrs. Fitzhardinge, the infatuated Charles Hatfield had signed the document with the name to which he believed himself to be entitled. The first sensations of the miser, as he fixed his eyes on the “promise to pay” at a specific date the sum of _one thousand guineas_, were of pleasure: for he calculated the profit he had derived from the transaction--and he flattered himself that he had gained seventy guineas in a single hour. “And with so little trouble, too,” he muttered to himself. But, in the next moment, a gloomy shade began to cross his countenance: for the thought stole upon him that perhaps he had acted too precipitately--that the women might have forged a number of papers to delude him--that, after all, there might be no such person in existence as Charles Hatfield, or Viscount Marston.