ends into a piece of newspaper laid in the crown of one of their hats, and a fourth stood a little way along the kerb casually rolling a cigarette, and keeping a quiet eye out for suspicious appearances. They were of different makes and sizes, but there seemed an undefined similarity between them.
'This is my push, Mrs. Aspinall,' said Bill; 'at least,' he added apologetically, 'it's part of 'em. Here, you chaps, this is Mrs. Aspinall, what I told you about.'
They elbowed the wall back, rubbed their heads with their hats, shuffled round, and seemed to take a vacant sort of interest in abstract objects, such as the pavement, the gas-lamp, and neighbouring doors and windows.
'Got the things ready?' asked Bill.
'Oh, yes.'
'Got 'em downstairs?'
'There's no upstairs. The rooms above belong to the next house.'
'And a nice house it is,' said Bill, 'for rooms to belong to. I wonder,' he reflected, cocking his eye at the windows above; 'I wonder how the police manage to keep an eye on the next house without keepin' an eye on yours―but they know.'
He turned towards the street end of the alley and gave a low whistle. Out under the lamp from behind the corner came a long, thin, shambling, hump-backed youth, with his hat down over his head like an extinguisher, dragging a small bony horse, which, in its turn, dragged a rickety cart of the tray variety, such as is used in the dead marine trade. Behind the
