“I can't get it up to you; you must drink it here. Come, think! It will be five years' penal servitude if you don't.”
“Is the rope long enough?”
“Plenty for that.”
Then there was another awful silence.
By-and-by a man's legs came dangling down, and Cole landed on the sill, still holding tight by the rope. He swung down on the sill, and slid into the room, perspiring and white with fear.
Coventry gave him some brandy directly,—Cole's trembling hand sent it flying down his throat, and the two men stared at each ether.
“Why, it is a gentleman!”
“Yes.”
“And do you really mean to see me clear?”
“Drink a little more brandy, and recover yourself, and then I'll tell you.”