times without getting any response, and knowing the thickness of the walls and doors as I did, I began to fear that no summons of mine would be heard, and that I should have to camp out in one of the buildings. But my knocking roused the dogs; they set up a great barking, and at that a window opened, and Tibbie Muir's voice, wrathful enough, demanded to know what ill body was below.
"Don't be angry, Tibbie," I called. "It's I, Mr. Craye. Tell your master I'm back, and let me in."
It was Parslewe himself who presently came down. He seemed in no way surprised, and he treated me to one of his sardonic grins.
"Well, young master?" he said, holding up his lamp and giving me a careful inspection as I stepped within. "You look a bit way-worn!" Then, in his eccentric, jocular fashion, and as he bolted and locked the big door behind me, he began to spout, dramatically:—
"But go up, Craye, my lad, and we'll see if a drop of whisky'll revive you!"
