"Come," he
said,--"come! there's a burglar getting in through Sampson's window." As
soon as I could speak, I said, "Well, why not call out and wake everybody
up?" "No, no," he said, "I'm not sure who it is: don't make a row: come
and look." Naturally I came and looked, and naturally there was no one
there. I was cross enough, and should have called McLeod plenty of names:
only--I couldn't tell why--it seemed to me that there _was_ something
wrong--something that made me very glad I wasn't alone to face it. We
were still at the window looking out, and as soon as I could, I asked him
what he had heard or seen. "I didn't _hear_ anything at all," he said,
"but about five minutes before I woke you, I found myself looking out of
this window here, and there was a man sitting or kneeling on Sampson's
window-sill, and looking in, and I thought he was beckoning." "What sort
of man?" McLeod wriggled. "I don't know," he said, "but I can tell you
one thing--he was beastly thin: and he looked as if he was wet all over:
and," he said, looking round and whispering as if he hardly liked to hear
himself, "I'm not at all sure that he was alive.
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