She listened a little while, and then stole softly downstairs to her own little room.
Her suspicions were correct. It was the same sort of knocking that had preceded the phenomenon of the hand and bank-notes. She peeped into the kitchen and whispered, "Jenny--Polly--come here."
A stout washerwoman and the mite of a servant came, wondering.
"Now you stand there," said Nancy, "and do as I bid you. Hold your tongues, now. I know all about it."
The myrmidons stood silent, but with panting bosoms; for the mysterious knocking now concluded, and a brick in the chimney began to move.
It came out, and immediately a hand with a ring on it came through the aperture, and felt about.
The mite stood firm, but the big washerwoman gave signs of agitation that promised to end in a scream.
Nancy put her hand roughly before the woman's mouth. "Hold your tongue, ye great soft--" And, without finishing her sentence, she darted to the chimney and seized the hand with both her own and pulled it with such violence that the wrist followed it through the masonry, and a roar was heard.