Merton answered; and the doctor remarked, ‘Mr. Logan will tell you what the rope’s for.’
The friends shook hands; the doctor, having deposited
Merton’s baggage, pleaded an engagement, and said ‘Good-bye,’ among the thanks of Logan. An old man, a kind of silent Caleb Balderstone, carried Merton’s light luggage up a black turnpike stair.
‘I’ve put you in the turret; it is the least dilapidated room,’ said Logan. ‘Now, come in here.’
He led the way into a hall on the ground-floor. A great fire in the ancient hearth, with its heavy heraldically carved stone chimney-piece, lit up the desolation of the chamber.
‘Sit down and warm yourself,’ said Logan, pushing forward a ponderous oaken chair, with a high back and short arms.
‘I know a good deal,’ said Merton, his curiosity hurrying him to the point; ‘but first, Logan, what is the rope on the stakes driven in round the house for?’
‘That was my first precaution,’ said Logan. ‘I heard of the—of what has happened—about four in the morning, and I instantly knocked in the stakes—hard work with the frozen ground—and drew the rope along, to isolate the snow about the house. When I had done that, I searched the snow for footmarks.’
‘When had the snow begun to fall?’
‘About midnight. I turned out then to look at the night before going to bed.’