The widow shook her head. And yet, though she knew the locksmith sought
to cheer her, and spoke from no conviction of his own, she was glad to
hear even this praise of her poor benighted son.

'He will be a 'cute man yet,' resumed the locksmith. 'Take care, when we
are growing old and foolish, Barnaby doesn't put us to the blush, that's
all. But our other friend,' he added, looking under the table and
about the floor--'sharpest and cunningest of all the sharp and cunning
ones--where's he?'

'In Barnaby's room,' rejoined the widow, with a faint smile.

'Ah! He's a knowing blade!' said Varden, shaking his head. 'I should
be sorry to talk secrets before him. Oh! He's a deep customer. I've no
doubt he can read, and write, and cast accounts if he chooses. What was
that? Him tapping at the door?'

'No,' returned the widow. 'It was in the street, I think. Hark! Yes.
There again! 'Tis some one knocking softly at the shutter. Who can it
be!'

They had been speaking in a low tone, for the invalid lay overhead, and
the walls and ceilings being thin and poorly built, the sound of their
voices might otherwise have disturbed his slumber. The party without,
whoever it was, could have stood close to the shutter without hearing
anything spoken; and, seeing the light through the chinks and finding
all so quiet, might have been persuaded that only one person was there.

'Some thief or ruffian maybe,' said the locksmith. 'Give me the light.'