He walked on tiptoe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. He held his breath, and listened at the keyhole. No reply: very odd. Another knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice cried⁠—

“Who’s there?”

“That’s not Job,” thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up against the wall again. “It’s a woman.”

He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query⁠—“Who’s there?”

Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole establishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the alarm had subsided; and then by a supernatural effort, to get over the wall, or perish in the attempt.