"What's his address in the country?"
"The Ghyll, Newlands, Cumberland."
"And yours, sir?"
"I am his brother, Hugh Ritson, and my address is the same."
"We'll go this instant."
"Well, take your piece of frieze with you and see if it fits. It was by the torn ulster that I recognized your man. Good-night."
CHAPTER XVII.
As soon as the noise of the retiring steps had died away on Gubblum's ear, he dressed himself partially, opened the door of his bedroom cautiously, and stepped into the passage. He was still in the dark, and groping with one hand, he felt for the ladder by which the two men had carried their burden to the loft above. He had grasped the lowest rungs of it, and was already some steps up, when he heard a singular noise. It was something between the cry of a child and the deep moan of a sick man. Did it come from the loft? Gubblum held his head in that direction and listened. No; the sound was from the other end of the passage. Now it was gone, and all was quiet. What a strange house was this!
"Can't see a styme," thought Gubblum. "I'll away for the cannel."