Evidently two individuals, the one with a lamp and the other with a candle or rushlight, were making a careful examination of the building.
"Let ilka man blaw his ain parritch," said Seth Jamieson doggedly, coming to a dead stop.

"What is it tae us if a wraith or a bogle minds tae tak' a fancy tae Cloomber?
It's no canny tae meddle wi' such things." "Why, man," I cried, "you don't suppose a wraith came here in a gig?
What are those lights away yonder by the avenue gates ?" "The lamps o' a gig, sure enough!" exclaimed my companion in a less lugubrious voice.

"Let's steer for it, Master West, and speer where she hails frae." By this time night had closed in save for a single long, narrow slit in the westward.

Stumbling across the moor together, we made our way into the Wigtown Road, at the point where the high stone pillars mark the entrance to the Cloomber avenue.

A tall dog-cart stood in front of the gateway, the horse browsing upon the thin border of grass which skirted the road.
"It's a' richt!" said Jamieson, taking a close look at the deserted vehicle.