“Let yourself down on my window-sill. I can find you rope enough for that.”
“What, d'ye take me for a bird, that can light of a gate?”
“But the sill is solid stone, and full a foot wide.”
“Say ye so, lad? Then luck is o' my side. Send up rope.”
The rope was sent up, and presently was fast to something above and dangled down a little past the window-sill.
“Put out a light on sill,” whispered the voice above.
“I will.”
Then there was a long silence, during which Coventry's blood ran cold.
As nothing further occurred, he whispered, “What is the matter?”
“My stomach fails me. Send me up a drop of brandy, will ye? Eh, man, but this is queer work.”