She breathed more freely, but stood quite motionless. As the locksmith
said 'Good night,' and Barnaby caught up the candle to light him down
the stairs, she took it from him, and charged him--with more haste and
earnestness than so slight an occasion appeared to warrant--not to stir.
The raven followed them to satisfy himself that all was right below,
and when they reached the street-door, stood on the bottom stair drawing
corks out of number.

With a trembling hand she unfastened the chain and bolts, and turned
the key. As she had her hand upon the latch, the locksmith said in a low
voice,

'I have told a lie to-night, for your sake, Mary, and for the sake of
bygone times and old acquaintance, when I would scorn to do so for my
own. I hope I may have done no harm, or led to none. I can't help the
suspicions you have forced upon me, and I am loth, I tell you plainly,
to leave Mr Edward here. Take care he comes to no hurt. I doubt the
safety of this roof, and am glad he leaves it so soon. Now, let me go.'

For a moment she hid her face in her hands and wept; but resisting the
strong impulse which evidently moved her to reply, opened the door--no
wider than was sufficient for the passage of his body--and motioned him
away. As the locksmith stood upon the step, it was chained and locked
behind him, and the raven, in furtherance of these precautions, barked
like a lusty house-dog.

'In league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from a
gibbet--he listening and hiding here--Barnaby first upon the spot last
night--can she who has always borne so fair a name be guilty of such