"Trot along. I'm with yer."
Cuckoo heard muffled drums of a dead-march as she walked. She, who had
lived a life so shameless, shivered with shame at the thought of what
she was going to do. Her treachery laid her out in its winding-sheet.
The old man tried to entertain her, as they went, by chatting about his
profession, declaiming the merits of his rats, and spreading before her
mind a verbal panorama of the canine life that had defiled through his
changeful existence. Cuckoo did not hear a word--they turned into
the Marylebone Road. She walked slower and slower, yet never had the
street in which she lived seemed so short. At length the iron gate of
number 400 was reached. Cuckoo stopped.
"In 'ere, lydy?" said the old man.
She nodded, unable to speak. He turned in with his crowd of pattering
dogs, and proceeded jauntily up the narrow path. Cuckoo followed slowly
and with a furtive step. She longed to open the front door, let him in,
and then run away herself. Anywhere, anywhere, only to be away, out of
sight and hearing of the cruel scene that was coming.
Now they were on the doorstep. The old man waited. She fumbled for her
latchkey, found it, thrust it into the door. Instantly the shrill bark of
Jessie was heard.
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