As I was leaving the room he called me back.
“There’s the oil can in yonder cupboard and a bull’s-eye lantern fixed in a belt. You will want to light that and strap it round you.”
I went and fetched them, and, holding them in my hand, asked him if there was anything more.
“No,” he said; “be careful not to let go the rope; that’s all.”
“Why do you want me to go down, dad? Let me just do the oiling and come away.”
“No, now—now,” he said, with feverish impatience. “The murder’s out and my conscience quit of it. You’ll satisfy me with a report of its safety, Renalt? There’s a brave fellow. It would be a sore thing to compose myself here to face the end, and not know but that something had happened to your inheritance.”
My spirit groaned, but I said to him, very well; I would go.
He called to me once more, and I noticed an odd repression in his voice.
“Assure yourself, and me, of the safety of the jar. Nothing else. If by chance you notice aught beyond, keep the knowledge of it locked in your breast—never mention it or refer to it in any way.”
Full of dull foreboding of some dread discovery, I left him and went slowly down the stairs.