'You was
last seen on the brink of the wharf, and they think you tumbled
over. Ha ha!'
The prospect of playing the spy under such delicious circumstances,
and of disappointing them all by walking in alive, gave more
delight to Quilp than the greatest stroke of good fortune could
possibly have inspired him with. He was no less tickled than his
hopeful assistant, and they both stood for some seconds, grinning
and gasping and wagging their heads at each other, on either side
of the post, like an unmatchable pair of Chinese idols.
'Not a word,' said Quilp, making towards the door on tiptoe. 'Not
a sound, not so much as a creaking board, or a stumble against a
cobweb. Drowned, eh, Mrs Quilp! Drowned!'
So saying, he blew out the candle, kicked off his shoes, and groped
his way up stairs; leaving his delighted young friend in an ecstasy
of summersets on the pavement.
The bedroom-door on the staircase being unlocked, Mr Quilp slipped
in, and planted himself behind the door of communication between
that chamber and the sitting-room, which standing ajar to render
both more airy, and having a very convenient chink (of which he had
often availed himself for purposes of espial, and had indeed
enlarged with his pocket-knife), enabled him not only to hear, but
to see distinctly, what was passing.
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