“Aye, sir—­sartain.”

“Come wi’ me, Tom—­we’ll gi’ a last look round the yard.”

So, side by side, with many a jealous look right and left, and over their shoulders, they went in silence.  On entering the old-fashioned quadrangle, surrounded by stables and other offices—­built in the antique cagework fashion—­they stopped for a while under the shadow of the inn gable, and looked round the yard, and listened.  All was silent—­nothing stirring.

The stable lantern was lighted; and with it in his hand Tony Turnbull, holding Tom Scales by the shoulder, advanced.  He hauled Tom after him for a step or two; then stood still and shoved him before him for a step or two more; and thus cautiously—­as a pair of skirmishers under fire—­they approached the coach-house door.

“There, ye see—­all safe,” whispered Tom, pointing to the lock, which hung—­distinct in the moonlight—­in its place.  “Cum back, I say!”

“Cum on, say I!” retorted the landlord valorously.  “It would never do to allow any tricks to be played with the chap in there”—­he pointed to the coachhouse door.

“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!”

“As sound as your sexton!” said the jeering voice from above.

“Come out of this,” whispered the landlord fiercely to his hostler, plucking him hard by the sleeve.

They got into the house, and shut the door.

“I wish we were shot of him,” said the landlord, with something like a groan, as he leaned against the wall of the passage.  “I’ll sit up, anyhow—­and, Tom, you’ll sit wi’ me.  Cum into the gun-room.  No one shall steal the dead man out of my yard while I can draw a trigger.”