“What’s the matter with the boy?” cried the doctor, as usual, all in a bustle. “Do you see anything—hear anything—feel anything—eh?”
“That, sir,” cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. “That house!”
“Yes; well, what of it? Stop, coachman. Pull up here,” cried the doctor. “What of the house, my man; eh?”
“The thieves—the house they took me to!” whispered Oliver.
“The devil it is!” cried the doctor. “Hallo, there! let me out!”
But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.
“Halloa!” said a little ugly humpbacked man: opening the door so suddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell forward into the passage. “What’s the matter here?”
“Matter!” exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment’s reflection. “A good deal. Robbery is the matter.”
“There’ll be Murder the matter, too,” replied the humpbacked man, coolly, “if you don’t take your hands off. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake. “Where’s—confound the fellow, what’s his rascally name—Sikes; that’s it. Where’s Sikes, you thief?”
The humpbacked man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor’s grasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word of parley.