“What astonishing acuteness!” remarked Learmont.
“Yes,“ said Sheldon, wonderfully flattered, “I—I believe you there, Master Gray. You are no fool yourself, because you—you see you’ve found out how ex—ex—extraordinary clever I am—you see.”
“Exactly,” cried Learmont. “This is a lonely district.”
“Here you are—Ah! Ah!” laughed Sheldon. “I—I know it—this is the house. Bless you, I know it by the painted windows.”
Learmont walked to the middle of the roadway, and by the dim morning light, which was just beginning to shed a faint colour across the dusky sky, he gazed earnestly at the ancient building, in which he had no doubt were the objects of his hatred and dread.
“Well,” said Sheldon, “ain’t—ain’t you going to ask a fellow in, just to take a drop o’ something?”
Learmont heard him not, or if he did, he heeded him not, but stood intently gazing at the house, and treasuring up in his memory every little peculiarity he could by the faint light detect, in order that he might again recognise it without doubt or difficulty.
“Hilloa!” cried Sheldon. “What are you staring at—d—d—did you never see your own house before?”
Learmont started, and advancing to Sheldon, he laid his hand upon his shoulder, saying,—
“My good friend, in that house I have not one drop of liquor, good or bad, to offer you.”