“Gude save us!” he muttered, climbing up. “I hope he winna shute me!”
The next minute he listened attentively, and then gave three sharp taps upon one pane, followed by two other similar signals, ere the blind was dragged back, the window thrown open, and Sir Murray’s hands were tightly grasping his throat.
“Hoot awa’ Sir Mooray, and tak’ awa’ ye’re hands from a man’s weam.”
“Hand over the letter, you scoundrel, or I’ll hurl you down!” exclaimed Sir Murray, through his teeth.
“The duel’s been sleeping in his clothes, and gone half daft,” muttered Sandy. And then, in a whisper: “Let me in, Sir Mooray, and look sharp, for there are burglars in the house!”
The gardener’s announcement seemed to bring his master to his right senses, and, loosing his hold, Sandy stepped lightly into the chamber.
“You’ll just have a pair of pistols, or dirk, or something, Sir Mooray,” said the man.
His master stepped to a drawer, and drew out a small double-barrelled pair, examined the nipples to see if they were capped, and then handed one to his servant, but the latter shook his head.
“Na—na,” he said; “I might be blowing his brains out with the thing, and I dinna wush that. I’ll take the poker, Sir Mooray; and now, if ye’re ready, the sooner we’re at them the better.”
“Ring the alarm-bell!” said Murray.