"The coroner here in the morning, and never a corpse to sit on!" He unlocked the padlock with these words, having handed the lantern to Tom. "Here, keck in, Tom," he continued; "ye hev the lantern—and see if all's as ye left it."
"Not me—na, not for the George and a' that's in it!" said Tom, with a shudder, sternly, as he took a step backward.
"What the—what are ye afraid on? Gi' me the lantern—it is all one: I will."
And cautiously, little by little, he opened the door; and, holding the lantern over his head in the narrow slit, he peeped in—frowning and pale—with one eye, as if he expected something to fly in his face. He closed the door without speaking, and locked it again.
"As safe as a thief in a mill," he whispered with a nod to his companion. And at that moment a harsh laugh overhead broke the silence startlingly, and set all the poultry in the yard gabbling.
"Thar he be!" said Tom, clutching the landlord's arm—"in the winda—see!"
The window of the cedar-room, up two pair of stairs, was open; and in the shadow a darker outline was visible of a man, with his elbows on the window-stone, looking down upon them.
"Look at his eyes—like two live coals!" gasped Tom.
The landlord could not see all this so sharply, being confused, and not so long-sighted as Tom.
"Time, sir," called Tony Turnbull, turning cold as he thought he saw a pair of eyes shining down redly at him—"time for honest folk to be in their beds, and asleep!"