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."

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.

"And do you really mean to see me clear?"