Coventry complimented him, and agreed with him that escape was impossible.

He then got a light, and went to his own bedroom, and sat down, cold at heart, before the fire.

He sat in that state, till two o’clock in the morning, distracting his brain with schemes, that were invented only to be dismissed as idle.

At last an idea came to him.  He took his fishing-rod, and put the thinner joints together, and laid them on the bed.  He then opened his window very cautiously.  But as that made some noise, he remained quite quiet for full ten minutes.  Then he got upon the window-seat, and passed the fishing rod out.  After one or two attempts he struck the window above, with the fine end.

Instantly he heard a movement above, and a window cautiously opened.

He gave a low “Hem!”

“Who’s that?” whispered the prisoner, from above.

“A man who wants you to escape.”

“Nay; but I have no tools.”

“What do you require?”

“I think I could do summut with a screw-driver.”

“I’ll send you one up.”

The next minute a couple of small screw-drivers were passed up—­part of the furniture of his gun.

Cole worked hard, but silently, for about an hour, and then he whispered down that he should be able to get a bar out.  But how high was it from the ground?

“About forty feet.”

Coventry heard the man actually groan at the intelligence.

“Let yourself down on my window-sill.  I can find you rope enough for that.”

“What, d’ye take me for a bird, that can light of a gate?”

“But the sill is solid stone, and full a foot wide.”

“Say ye so, lad?  Then luck is o’ my side.  Send up rope.”

The rope was sent up, and presently was fast to something above and dangled down a little past the window-sill.

“Put out a light on sill,” whispered the voice above.

“I will.”

Then there was a long silence, during which Coventry’s blood ran cold.

As nothing further occurred, he whispered, “What is the matter?”

“My stomach fails me.  Send me up a drop of brandy, will ye?  Eh, man, but this is queer work.”

“I can’t get it up to you; you must drink it here.  Come, think!  It will be five years’ penal servitude if you don’t.”

“Is the rope long enough?”

“Plenty for that.”

Then there was another awful silence.

By-and-by a man’s legs came dangling down, and Cole landed on the sill, still holding tight by the rope.  He swung down on the sill, and slid into the room, perspiring and white with fear.

Coventry gave him some brandy directly,—­Cole’s trembling hand sent it flying down his throat, and the two men stared at each ether.

“Why, it is a gentleman!”

“Yes.”

“And do you really mean to see me clear?”

“Drink a little more brandy, and recover yourself, and then I’ll tell you.”