These last words were uttered with a low chuckle and an expression of countenance that indicated but too well the diabolical hopes and intentions of the Resurrection Man.
The Buffer and his wife then took leave of their friends, and departed to their own abode.
"Now, Meg," said the Resurrection Man, "it is nearly twelve o'clock; and you may get ready to go to bed. I am just going out for a few minutes—"
"As usual, Tony," cried the Rattlesnake, impatiently. "Why do you always go out now—every night?"
"I have told you over and over again not to pry into my secrets," returned the Resurrection Man, furiously. "You mind your own business, and only meddle in what I tell you to take a part; or else—"
"Well, well, Tony—don't be angry now," said the Rattlesnake, in her most wheedling tone. "I will never ask you any more questions. Only I thought it strange that you should have gone out every night for the last three weeks—no matter what weather—"
"And you may think it strange a little longer if you like," once more interrupted the terrible Resurrection Man, with a sinister lowering of his countenance which checked the reply that was rising to the lips of his companion.
The Rattlesnake lighted a candle, and passed into the adjoining apartment.
The Resurrection Man poured some raw spirits into a wine glass, tossed it off, and putting on his hat, left the room.
He descended the precipitate staircase leading to the front door of the house, and in another moment reached the street.