"Don't only, then," she said, in a fierce whisper; "and don't growl like that, or you'll frighten them as is upstairs into thinking it's some one else." "All right, my lass; all right. Only you are very hard on a man. You was hard at King's Castor, you was harder up at Clerkenwell, while now we're out here rocks is padded bulkheads to you." "I can't help it, Tom; I'm in trouble," said Thisbe more gently. "Are you, my lass? Well, let me pilot you out." "Yes, I think you shall," she said, "I wanted you to come." "Now, that's pleasant," said Tom Porter, smiling; "and it does me good, for the way in which I wants to help you, Thisbe, is a wonder even to me." "Oh, yes, I know," she said grimly. "Now then, why did you come?" "You said you wanted me." "Yes; but tell me first why you came." "The Admiral sent me to say that he was waiting for the missus's commands, and might he come down and see her on very partic'lar business? He couldn't write, his hand's all a shake, and he ain't been asleep all night." "Tell him, and tell Mr Bayle, too, that my mistress begs that she may be left alone for the present. She says she will send to them if she wants their help." "Right it is," said Tom Porter. "Now then, what did _you_ want along o' me?" Thisbe's face hardened and then grew convulsed, and the tears sprang to her eyes. Then it seemed to harden up again, and she took hold of Tom Porter's collar and whispered to him quickly. "Phe-ew!" whistled Sir Gordon's man. She went on whispering in an excited way. "Yes, I understand," he said. She whispered to him again more earnestly than ever. "Yes. Not tell a soul--and only if--" "Yes." "Only if--" "Yes, yes," whispered Thisbe. "Mind, I depend upon you." "If Tom Porter's a living soul," he replied, "it's done. But you do mean it?" "I mean it," said Thisbe King. "Now go." "One moment, my lass," he said. "I've been very humble, and humble I am; but when this trouble's over and smooth water comes, will you?" Thisbe did not answer for a few moments, and then it was in a softened voice. "Tom Porter," she said, "there's one upstairs half dead with misery, and her darling child suffering more than words can tell. My poor heart's full of them; don't ask me now." Tom Porter gave his lips a smart slap and hurried down the street, while Thisbe closed the window and went back to her chair, to rock herself to and fro again, with her hands busily rolling and unrolling her apron. "I've done it," she said; "but it all rests on him. It's his own doing." Then, after a pause: "How long will it be before they find out where we are? Not long. Hah!" Thisbe King passed her hands up and down her bare brawny arms, and her face tightened for the encounter which she felt must come before long. VOLUME FOUR, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. THE BLOW FALLS.