There had been burglaries in the neighbourhood. Bert was quite correct when he asserted the fact emphatically.
"Lots of 'em, too," he repeated in a hoarse whisper, drawing Clive and Hugh after him across the rafters, which in days gone by had supported the floor of the chamber leading to the gallery of the chapel within the deserted tower. "Just listen to this," he went on, in more natural tones, when he had conducted them back to the window by which they had gained an entrance. "There was a burglary at the Evansons', eh?"
"Big one," agreed Clive. "They're five miles away from this."
"And a heap of stuff was taken. That's three months ago."
"More—four months," asserted Hugh, thrusting his hands deep in his pockets and shrinking his neck into his collar. Hugh, in fact, wore a most severe and thoughtful expression. Then he seemed to have thought of something important. His hands shot from his pockets suddenly. He searched the belt beneath his coat, secured round his middle. "Might want 'em, eh?" he asked, fingering the dagger with which he had so thoughtfully provided himself. Clive, too, copied the movement.
"Rot!" observed Bert very curtly. "As if we could venture to fight those beggars down there. Besides, it isn't proved that they are burglars. They may be merely tramps."
"Aren't tramps burglars, then?" asked Clive hotly.
"Of course!" from Hugh.
"Rot again!" said Bert. "Tramps may be pilferers. They're not burglars—at least, not as a general rule. Burglars nowadays dress more or less like gentlemen, live in fine houses or hotels, and employ all the latest scientific appliances."
"Such as X-rays, and that sort," reflected Clive.
"And diamond drills, and dynamite, and gloved hands, and—and the rest of 'em," added Hugh.
"Right—tramps can't afford those things. They may pilfer; they don't set out to become downright burglars. Now, those beggars below aren't all the same."
"One of 'em's the blackguard who threatened Clive and me some while ago," Hugh reminded him. "An out-and-out ruffian he looks too. More of the tramp style, I should call him. So there goes bang your idea that these chaps are burglars."
"In fact, it's a mare's nest," grinned Clive. "These fellows are just tramps or out-of-works, or something of the sort. Homeless fellows, who find that the old tower gives cheap and splendid lodgings. Think of it—nothing to pay for house-rent, no rates and no taxes, no neighbours, either, no annoyance from noisy dogs, or from cocks and hens, no children playing pranks, and——"
"Dry up, do!" said Bert fiercely. "Just shows that you two chaps go about the world with your eyes half closed. That's the worst of being amateur mechanics. Everything that isn't something to do with an engine, a motor, or—or a what-not, isn't worth taking notice of."
"Here!" began Hugh indignantly, for breezes frequently arose between the two brothers. Hugh was not the lad to be down-trodden. Indeed, as a matter of actual fact, it was he who oftenmost triumphed. The easy-going, dreaming Bert usually collapsed early in such arguments and agreed to whatever was passing.
"Shut up!" he retorted curtly enough on this occasion, and to the astonishment of Clive, and, be it added, to Hugh's own astonishment also, for that young gentleman bit the words he was about to utter off short at the very tip of his tongue.
"Well?" he asked lamely.
"Who said that that blackguard didn't look like a tramp? He does—any ass can see that—but the others don't. They're better dressed—roughly, I'll admit, but better. But they're disguised. Whoever saw chaps of their supposed position—labourers you'd call 'em—smoking cigarettes out of gold-mounted holders?"
"Oh! Eh?" ejaculated Hugh, his breath rather taken away.
"You didn't notice, then?"
"Er—no."
"Nor you, Clive?"
"No. But I saw it, if you can see the difference in what seems rather a contradictory statement. What'd Old B. call that if he were taking us in classics?"
"Hang old B.!" declared Bert irreverently.
It made the others flush to hear him speak in such fashion. Bert say such a thing of Old B., one of his particular favourites! Clive and Hugh looked askance at the comrade they knew as a rule as a smooth-spoken, wool-gathering fellow. Here he was decidedly emphatic—brusque, to say the least of it, in fact quite rude, and hurling names about in a manner which might be that of Masters', but was certainly not that customary to Bert Seymour. Hugh wondered what next was coming. Clive grinned sheepishly, and then suddenly straightened his features. Half an hour before he wouldn't have minded Bert's seeing that grin of derision. Now he was positively afraid.
"Er—oh—er, yes," he said lamely.
"Eh?" asked Bert sharply.
"Oh, nothing."
"Then don't gas. Look here. What I've said is true enough. Hugh didn't see what I've mentioned. Well," said Bert, with cold scorn, "no one expects anything better from Hugh."
"I say! Look here!"
"But Clive saw it, for a wonder," the elder of the lads went on without faltering. "So it's true enough. Three of those chaps are impostors. The fourth keeps house down here for 'em, and lets 'em know how things are going."
"What things?" asked Hugh sulkily.
"What things! Why, who's away from home, or going away shortly. Who's a big swell, with lots of cash and lots of jewels. What the police are doing. Whether they suspect anyone in particular. What clue they have to the perpetrators——"
"How much?" asked Clive.
"Perpetrators. Fellows who did the job," said Bert, with cold scorn again. In fact, his tones were icy. He might have been speaking to little children. "What clue they have to the perpetrators of the burglaries, and what chance there is of cracking other cribs."
His grip of the situation was really amazing. Clive remembered all of a sudden that Bert had already made quite a name for himself in the school Debating Society. It was strange, he had often thought, that a fellow usually so retiring and so dreamy should be ready to get on to his feet and speak before an audience. He himself would have shivered in his shoes if called upon to debate. Yet Bert turned not so much as a hair.
"Ready to get on to his hind legs and gas at any moment and on any subject," Hugh had once observed. "Glad he keeps his gas for the Debating Society and don't let it off on us. Bert's a wonder."
He was a distinct surprise on this occasion—at any rate, what might with justice be described as a dark horse. For here was Bert gripping the intricacies of the situation as if he'd been thinking them out for hours. And what was more to the point, though usually content to take third place, as we have explained, he had of a sudden crumpled up all but the feeblest attempts to contradict him, had hurled scorn at his friends, and was now virtually in command of the party. He was a wonder indeed! At last he was being taken seriously.
"So we take it as agreed that these beggars are burglars," he said. "The next question is, how are we going to act?"
"The police. Send for 'em," suggested Clive.
"Yes, we will, in time, as soon as we've proved to our own satisfaction that the thing we've discovered is no mare's nest. Hugh, how long would it take you to nip down by the ivy?"
"To the ground?"
"Of course. Where else, donkey?"
"Two minutes," answered that young fellow when he had squinted from the window.
"Then you stay here and wait for a signal. I hope not to have to send it. But if I do, hop."
"Eh?"
"Clear off. Get home to father and then to the police."
"Yes. But you?"
"Clive and I will remain. I've discovered already that the stairs which once led to the first floor have fallen down. The floor's a very high one, and unless there is some easier way up elsewhere, where we haven't yet explored, those fellows wouldn't be able to get at us. That leaves us safe. While they're trying to get us down, you'll be off. See?"
"And you'll keep them trying till I can get the police. I've got it. Hooray!"
"Shut up!" commanded Bert.
Hugh showed wonderful obedience. He even looked admiringly at his brother, and that was very unusual with him. In fact, Hugh's conceit was large up to this moment. He was more than apt to lay down the law, especially where Bert was concerned. And now he had met his master. Where strength of character—real strength—was required, Bert had as if by magic suddenly become leader of the trio.
"Stay there and wait. Keep your eye open," he said. "Come on, Clive."
They went off across the old room, through the archway, and so to that other chamber across the floor beams of which lay the road to the gallery over the tumble-down chapel. What memories, what imaginations that old place brought up too! Clive recollected the tales he had so often read of times gone by when people lived in similar places, in fortified towers and castles. When strife between adjacent barons was frequent, almost incessant, when sudden raids were made, and when the surrounding people, the serfs and tillers of the soil, all who owed allegiance to one of the mighty barons, hastened, at the blowing of a horn, to the castle, driving maybe their cattle before them, and accompanied by their wives and children. He could see them here, massed in a huge square open place in the heart of the tower. He pictured himself as one of them—the sentry, in fact—perched on that high smaller tower on the roof to which they had ascended, peering out over the country and watching the blazing of the homesteads and the approach of the attackers. He closed his eyes, this imaginative Clive, and saw the galleries and roof and windows peopled by men-at-arms in leathern jerkins, armed with bows and arrows, or with clumsy arquebuses. Many, too, with huge halberds. There were others up on the roof, poising masses of rock on their shoulders, ready to hurl them down upon the enemy approaching the door. There too, amongst them, was the noble baron himself, with his spouse, while between them stood a trumpeter. He could see the envoy of the enemy approach on his horse, a white flag attached to his lance, could hear the flare of his trumpet summons, and his demand that the tower should be surrendered. And then, still with soaring imagination, he grew enthusiastic as he conjured up the haughty refusal of the baron, the first blows struck, the noise and shouts of the contestants.
"S—s—she! Go quietly. You'll let 'em hear us." Bert brought him suddenly to his senses, and perhaps it was as well that he did so, for at the moment Clive was balancing himself in the centre of one of the floor beams, wabbling somewhat giddily, and looking as if he might fall on to the massed-up debris down below, all that remained now of the massive floor on which the ancient occupants of this room had trodden. Yes, it was a place to conjure up all sorts of strange ideas. One could picture the huge oak table in the centre of this room, the rush mats on the floor, the forms and rough chairs round the huge, open fireplace. But Clive had dreamed long enough. It was strange indeed to hear of his dreaming. That was the sort of thing one expected of Bert. And here he was perfectly wideawake, the reverse of dreaming, as practical and unromantic as could well be imagined.
"S—s—she!" he whispered. "I heard 'em moving. Stop a bit. They may be listening."
No. The drone of voices came to their ears. Sometimes it appeared as if all four men must be talking at one and the same time. Then there were but two or one. Later, there was loud, raucous laughter. Then a man coughed and choked, and once more there was loud laughter, louder this time, for three joined in it.
"Just the moment to move forward," whispered Bert. "Come on."
He gained the gallery, and Clive soon afterwards. Then they crept to the ruined balustrade and peeped over. Yes, there were the four men, and now that Clive's interest and powers of observation had been stimulated he remarked at once that whereas the three men, strangers to him, were clad in rough clothing, as if they were labourers, two were certainly smoking cigarettes from gold-tipped holders. At least, it looked as if the bands surrounding the holders were gold.
"Might be simply cheap gilt," he told himself. "All the same, it's fishy to see 'em smoking cigarettes from holders. That's the sort of thing Susanne'd do. He don't think anything of a fellow who don't use one, and says that cigarettes aren't worth smoking otherwise. Wonder when I'll be able to smoke and enjoy it?"
It was one of Clive's ambitions, one destined, it seemed, to be long deferred. For we must be perfectly candid on this subject. Clive, like a huge number of other young fellows who attempt to smoke, in their heart of hearts abhor the thing. Only the fancied grandness of the practice lets them repeat it. Perhaps, also, it is because smoking is so strictly forbidden, and is such a severely punished offence because of its decidedly harmful effects, that boys dare attempt it. In any case, speaking of Clive, we have to faithfully record the fact that a cigarette went far to make him feel positively sick, and being a sensible fellow he had decided against the practice. Even Susanne had lost his keenness, while Hugh and Bert had never once shown an inclination in that direction. Indeed, to do the "Old Firm" but simple justice, they were models where smoking was concerned.
Down below, in the body of the ruined chapel, beneath an expanse of roof still supported on some half-dozen pillars, and situated so close to the edge that the two above could easily perceive them, were the four men whose voices they had heard, the head and shoulders of one of them, however, being still invisible. They sat for the most part on masses of stone which had once been portions of pillars. But one occupied a chair, while now that he had more time for observation, Bert saw that, far in the background, and only partly visible, was an iron bedstead, on which lay a bundle of blankets. A wood fire blazed in the centre of the circle formed by the men, and propped on iron legs above it was an iron pot. Near by, also, were glasses and a bottle.
"A chap could easily get across over there, and lie down immediately over their heads," whispered Bert, of a sudden, when they had been looking downward for some few minutes, vainly trying to overhear what was passing between the men. "I suppose it's all right trying to overhear, eh? Don't like sneaks of that sort as a rule. But here, eh?"
His eyebrows went up questioningly. Clive jerked his head.
"All's fair," he answered. "If they're burglars, why it's——"
"Playing the game?"
"Exactly."
"Then you think we could get over there? I'll try, at any rate. You stay and watch. If I succeed, you follow."
Bert went off at once along the gallery, creeping close beside the wall, for the balustrade had in parts disappeared entirely. Nor was it such an easy task to reach the spot he had pointed out, for once more it was necessary to cross a part where the roof of the chapel had disappeared as completely as had the balustrade. There was, in fact, simply a stone archway left, across which he must walk to gain the position he sought. And it must be remembered that that archway was not by any means low. The pillars supporting it towered upward a considerable height, so that looking down made one giddy. A few hours before, Bert would have hesitated. The masterful Hugh also, fully conscious of his prowess in the gymnasium, would in all probability have elected to leave the task unaccomplished. But Bert was transformed. He swept difficulties aside as if they did not exist. Measuring the height of the archway, and its breadth, he stepped on to it, held his arms widely outstretched, and commenced the passage, while Clive looked on, his heart in his mouth.
"He'll fall," he thought. "Just fancy Bert's venturing. George! He's across, and now he's beckoning. I've got to chance it too."
He felt dismayed. Where there was a difficult tree to be climbed when he and Hugh were bird's-nesting, Clive made light of the business. He scoffed at heights, at weakened and rotten branches, and laughed at the very idea that he should fall. But walking the tight-rope was an altogether different class of undertaking, and what was this feat but tight-rope walking?
"Jolly well like it," he thought. "Of course, the arch is steady. But it's awfully narrow, and it's such a height. If one tripped, one would be over. That'd kill a fellow."
He crept along the gallery, stole softly to the arch, and then looked over. It made him feel quite queer when he peered down into the ruined chapel. Clive felt like funking. He was on the point of shaking his head in Bert's direction. And then he changed his mind. What Bert could do, he would.
"As if I'd let him beat me!" he thought. "He'd call me a funk. He's been slinging names around freely since this began. Like his cheek! Just fancy Bert slinging names at a fellow!"
A hot flush rose to his cheeks at the thought. If he had hesitated to make this attempt to cross a moment earlier, he was now eager to set out.
"Just fancy being licked by Bert. Not me! Rather get smashed into mincemeat down below than have him jeering."
And off he went across the narrow archway, with Bert watching him anxiously, as if doubtful of his capacity to cross. If Clive could have read his friend's thoughts he would have flushed even redder than he had done a little while before, for conditions were reversed with a vengeance. It was always a matter of doubt with Clive and Hugh, and with the somewhat bumptious Masters, to tell the tale fully, whether Bert, when accompanying the Old Firm on some of its more reckless expeditions, would ruin its success by his natural timidity. And here he was ready to call Clive a funk if need be, and anxiously wondering whether he were capable of doing what he, Bert, had done!
"Ah! Glad you managed it. Thought you might get giddy and fall," he whispered. "Now lie down and don't kick up a beastly row. I want to listen."
There was sudden movement down below. One of the four under observation—and now that Clive and Bert had changed their point of vantage, invisible to them, for they were almost directly beneath—rose from the stone seat he had been occupying, kicked the logs on the fire till they sent a stream of sparks upward, and then sauntered out into that part of the chapel exposed to the sky. Where a roof should have been, there was now nothing but the broken ends of what had, doubtless, once been finely carved stone arches. They poked their shattered tips from the farther wall like so many fingers, and attracted the attention of the fellow below. Seeing him suddenly appear, Clive lay even flatter, and he, too, took stock of those remains of broken arches. And then, straightway, he pictured the chapel as it had been, with its carved and ornamental roof, its beautiful stone pillars, its aisles, its pews. And in amongst the latter those people of a bygone day. Men in armour, ladies in the fashion of the time, retainers stationed everywhere. He even fancied he heard the low-voiced music of the organ, the chanting of the choir, the deep bass notes of the priest in attendance. And then he was startled into the reality of things as they were. For the man below was speaking. Despite his clothes, one would have sworn that he had some pretensions to being a gentleman. He was still smoking a cigarette, and now knocked the end against one of the pillars of the chapel so as to clear it of ash. Then he looked around, as if admiring the ruins.
"A queer place to be hidden in, eh?" he asked, flourishing the cigarette. "Romantic and all that. Haunted, they tell me. All the better. No one likely to interfere."
His voice was singularly tuneful. Had Clive or Bert met him elsewhere and seen him dressed in other raiment they would decidedly have proclaimed him to be a gentleman. But then, the times we live in are strange ones.
"The most honest, sometimes the most ragged," Bert murmured. "The more gentlemanly, sometimes the cleverer rascal. That chap's good looking."
Clive nodded. "Yes," he said. "I believe I've seen him somewhere else before this."
"Round about here?"
This time Clive shook his head. He could not recollect; but of this he was sure, he had seen this man, and under different circumstances.
"I'll swear he was well dressed then," he whispered. "But let's shut up. They're gassing."
"All the better," repeated the man out in the open, stretching his arms and yawning. "There's less chance of interference. But I'll tell you this. I'd rather we could work during the daytime than at night. I never was one for staying up. I'm a beggar to sleep. If only every other person would sleep during the hours of daylight, I for one would be contented."
"Listen to the selfish beggar," came an answer from directly beneath the listeners. "Here's Joe wishes to be left alone to do his work during the daytime, just because he likes to sleep at night. As if he weren't having his reward. Listen to this, Joe. Good things are not to be had without the expenditure of trouble, and without inconvenience to one's self. That's something worth remembering. Think what you get for a night's work. More than the average man makes in a whole year, perhaps. And if we're lucky, and things turn out as we hope, why, there's a fortune for each one of us. We're out for a big haul. The stuff's there, or should be. There don't seem a chance of our being interfered with, while here's Peter, who knows the inns and outs of every corner, able to advise us where to work, and, what's even better, able to keep watch when we're gone, and no doubt to throw dust in the eyes of those who might be inquisitive."
"For instance, the police," came from the third man, with a satirical laugh. "I'd just like to know what they'll make of this business we're after. But we've been too cute for 'em up to now, and I'm not afraid of running across them. This haul's bound to be either nothing or a real big un, and if it is, why, there'll be quite a little excitement in the neighbourhood."
Bert nudged Clive. "Hear that?" he asked, in a whisper. "They're going to attempt a haul."
"Here, too," answered Clive excitedly. "But exactly where?"
"Ah! That's what we've got to discover. They've evidently put the police off the scent, and we were quite right in thinking that the fellow who lives in this place picks up all local information for these fellows. Look out! They're at it again."
"Say, Joe," they heard from one of the men still invisible. "Let's look at that sketch again. I'm not sure where the window actually is, nor in what condition. But perhaps Peter will tell us. Now, lad, let's hear it."
There was a short pause, and then another voice chimed in, one less musical and far less cultured.
"The window. Oh, ah! Well, now, it's right away agin the very corner, and if there ever was a window that was strong, why, it's that there window. But the job can be done, particular by you gents that has had sich practice."
"Going to enter by a window," whispered Bert hoarsely. "But where?"
"And seein' as you've got the right sort o' tools, why it's jest as good as finished," went on the fellow known as Peter. "After that, why, it lies with yourselves. If you're careful I can't see as there's a chance of interference, and if the stuff's there, why, you has it. As for the police, they're safe. Why, bless you, when there's one of your night jobs on, and it ain't quite sort o' healthy for the police to be about, I jest manages to send 'em word somehow that there's a poachin' business comin' off, and that there poachin' business ain't never in the neighbourhood you're workin'. What's more, the news ain't never given by me, nor by the same man, never. Them police is jest little babies."
Evidently Peter had little opinion of the arm of the law. He held the local sergeant and his constable in open contempt, and now he was gloating over the clever means by which he had managed to hoodwink them. Clive heard him cackling. He slouched out into the open, crammed his pipe with tobacco which the man called Joe offered, and lit the weed by means of a piece of smouldering wood picked from the fire.
As for Clive and Bert, they withdrew a little later. They were still wanting precise information as to the part where this burglary was to be attempted, and they were not at all sure that the plan was to be carried out that night.
"But it's likely enough," reflected Bert. "Chaps like these don't come down to the country to hang about. They've chosen one of the large houses, and Peter will have thrown dust in the eyes of the police and sent 'em in the opposite direction. To-night'll be dark, for there's no moon just now. Now, what's to be done in the matter?"
That was a most difficult question. Gathered about the window by which they had entered, the three debated the point with hushed voice and eager gesture. Observation and the words they had overheard had been amply sufficient to convince them of the importance of their discovery. Only their own determination had gained admission to the ruined tower for them. But thanks to that they had unearthed a nest of burglars. The matter could not rest there.
"Impossible!" declared Bert resolutely, which sentiment Clive and Hugh echoed. "We'd have the neighbourhood shouting taunts at us and declaring we were funks. Those chaps below have brought this thing on themselves. They ought to have seen to it that no one could clamber into the tower. They didn't. That's their fault. But, as a result, we know that they're burglars."
"Yes. Regular rotters," Hugh agreed.
"And our duty's as plain as possible."
Clive pushed his hands deep into his pockets and looked decidedly stubborn.
"Yes, it is a duty," Bert admitted. "What's more, we're going to carry it through. Just you chaps shut up talking while I think a bit. You gas so much that you make a fellow's wits go wandering."
He had become quite spiteful. Hugh actually flinched under this reprimand and failed to retort. Clive coloured, looked indignant, and then turned to gaze out of the window. Each was therefore left to his thoughts, and though a method of procedure might not yet have been come at, this was quite certain: each one was fully determined that nothing should make him flinch from the task so unexpectedly set him. The arrest of those scheming burglars was decidedly a duty.
The predicament in which Bert and his friends found themselves after overhearing the discussion between the four men in the chapel of the tower was by no means lessened by an event which happened within five minutes of the return of Clive and Bert. They were grouped round the window through which they had gained entrance, debating the question. Bert, in the manner he favoured when addressing the members of that august assembly known as the Ranleigh School Debating Society, stood with his hands beneath his coat, firmly clenched at his back. He leaned slightly forward, wagged his head impressively when he wished to make a point, and silenced interruption with a keen and sometimes threatening glance.
"There you are," he was saying, as if summing up the whole position.
"We arrive here after a bit of a climb."
"Yes, we all know that," interjected Hugh impatiently. "If we hadn't arrived here, why—well, we shouldn't be here, should we?"
"Don't talk rot," came the rejoinder. "We arrive here after a climb; we discover four blackguards——"
"One moment," said Clive, gently enough, for he was positively fearful now of incurring the censure of the great Bert. "You must admit that they don't exactly appear to be blackguards. One, for instance——"
Bert tossed his head impatiently. He freed one hand from behind his back, and still leaving the other in its old position, holding his coat-tails in air, lifted the first, protruded a forefinger and held it out in a manner half appealing and certainly a little threatening.
"Do let's get on," he growled. "Who's such an ass not to know that modern burglars are often swells?"
"Agreed," cried Hugh, while Clive nodded.
"All the swell mobsmen of to-day cut a dash. Probably they've been to the best of schools, and if only you knew it, you rub shoulders with them when you go to dances and dinners and the theatre."
Bert was really terrific. Hugh blushed to think of his boldness. As if he and his brother were in the habit of going to dances, of being invited to dinners, and of accompanying friends to the theatre. Catch them being bored with one or the other! Why, Bert had only said on the previous day that dances were a nuisance. That he preferred cricket. That dinners didn't interest him, for people talked such rot. Besides, a chap couldn't get half enough to eat. As to theatres, well, there he had waxed quite indignant. Theatres indeed! Drivel! That had been his actual expression. And here he was holding forth! Hugh opened his mouth to protest.
"I say! Draw it mild. How can chaps rub shoulders with burglars at dances, dinners, and theatres if they never go, or hardly ever?"
Bert fixed him with a piercing glance. "Ass!" he hissed. "Who's meaning us? You means Dick and Tom and Harry. I wouldn't be bored with such things. But other folks are, and they rub shoulders with fine fellows, handsome chaps able to debate any question, and in the King's best English too, who are common robbers all the same. But you wouldn't be supposed to know all that, Hugh. You're too young."
There was pity in his tones. Hugh crumpled up instantly. His indignation a few hours ago would have been surprising. He might even have launched himself at Bert, for sometimes their breezes led to violence. But now? He wished the ground would open and swallow him. Bert's scorn and pity made him positively miserable.
"Sorry!" he managed to murmur.
"Oh, you can't help that, no more can Clive. You're both of you kids, and it's kindest to tell you. But do let us get ahead. We've discovered four blackguards down below, and we know the police are after them. We have heard of frequent burglaries in these parts of late, and we have overheard these fellows boasting of how they have put the police off the track. Now they're contemplating another. We've got to act, and——"
It was just at this precise moment that the event occurred which added to their difficulties, and, in fact, threw them into a condition of great excitement. A low, reverberating crash came bursting through the doorway of the room and reached their ears sharply. They looked at one another in dismay.
"A revolver shot," said Bert hoarsely.
"Perhaps they've had a row," suggested Clive after a minute's silence. "Perhaps they were dividing the stuff taken on former occasions and couldn't agree. There's another."
Five shots rang out in swift succession, and there was a half-smothered shout. Hugh looked doubtfully out of the window. He wondered if Bert would recommend a precipitate retirement, and sincerely hoped he would. Clive, too, followed the direction of his glance, and felt somewhat faint-hearted. But Bert rose to the occasion, just as he had done before.
"You stay here. I'll go and see what's happening," he said.
"I'll come too," cried Clive eagerly, while Hugh showed a decided inclination to follow. But their friend checked the impulse with a wave of his hand.
"Stay here," he said. "If there's shooting, better have only one hurt. If I don't get back within five minutes you'll know that something's happened. Then bolt for it. Hunt up the police, tell 'em the whole tale, and bring 'em along with you. Of course, they'd better come armed. Rather! Listen to that. There's more shooting. They must be hiding behind the pillars and potting at one another. Now, do as you're told. Just hop if I'm not back in five minutes."
He went off without another glance at them, and we must record the impression his courage created. Clive and Hugh were positively astounded.
"Never knew him like this before. What's happened to him?" asked the former.
Hugh shook his head dolefully. The whole thing was astounding and somewhat painful. Even in the midst of such excitement the thought was uppermost in his mind that Bert had shone brightly in this adventure, while he, Hugh, who as a rule thrust himself to the front as if he recognised his own superiority, was acting like a baby, and would willingly have bolted a moment ago if it hadn't been for his brother's example.
"I'm jiggered!" was all that he could exclaim, somewhat mournfully.
Afterwards they stood by the window listening eagerly, every little sound causing them to stir and start. And when the shots were repeated, which was every few moments, they positively jumped.
How slowly those fatal minutes passed too. Clive dragged a battered Waterbury from his waistcoat pocket, shook it violently to make sure that it was running, for, in spite of its general excellence, this same watch had of late struck work on occasion. What else could you expect? The ingenious Clive and Hugh had imagined that they had a startling improvement to add to the watch. It had surprised them that no watchmaker had ever hit upon such a simple invention. The thing was, in fact, brilliant and childishly simple, so much so that they burned to put it into practice. That meant that the cheap but reliable Waterbury possessed by Clive had promptly been laid on the operating table. Its vitals had been exposed. Its springs had been stirred with a canny instrument of Clive's own making, and then, the greatest triumph of all, the simple and brilliant improvement had been added.
"Simply ripping!" was Hugh's enthusiastic comment, as he watched his friend's dexterous fingers. "It'll go like a bird after this. You'll make a pot of money by selling the invention."
Alas! The stupid watch resented this unasked-for interference. There was something wrong with the invention added. Perhaps it didn't fit. Perhaps the vitals of the Waterbury had been slightly injured. Whatever the cause, the watch refused to go regularly after that experiment, even though Clive reluctantly withdrew his brilliant addition from the interior. It had a habit of stopping. Then it would plunge ahead without rhyme or reason. But it was going now.
"He left us two minutes twenty seconds ago," he said hoarsely.
"And gave us the limit of five. My eye! Ain't they shooting! It must be a regular battle."
The shots came frequently still to their ears, sharp and very distinct, while occasionally there was a shout. Hugh looked out of the window, wondering whether anyone passing on the road would hear the noise and come in their direction.
"We'd wave then," he told Clive.
"What?" asked that latter, giving his Waterbury a bang on the stone edge of the window. "Beastly thing's trying to stop. It gave a sort of whir. You know. You've heard it."
"I was wondering if anyone on the road would hear and come along. We'd wave," repeated Hugh.
"Of course. Any juggins would do that. But they won't hear. The sound breaks up in the building. You wouldn't hear it if you were down below in that old garden. How's time? I do wish Bert'd come back. Supposing he don't? What then?"
"We run for it."
"And leave him?"
"Those were his or—er, his wishes," said Hugh hurriedly.
"Oh! Then I suppose we must, though I don't like leaving him. But it's better than all being murdered. George! It's four minutes five seconds since he left us."
They counted the remaining seconds anxiously. They were breathless when the full five minutes had gone. Clive tucked the Waterbury sadly back into his pocket and looked enquiringly at his friend.
"Give him five minutes' grace," he said.
Hugh nodded. He noticed that the firing had become almost furious. Then there was a loud and startled shout, when it ceased all of a sudden.
There was blank despair on their faces now. What better evidence could they have of Bert's downfall?
"Those brutes have bagged him," groaned Hugh. "If—if only we had revolvers."
"I'm awfully sorry," said Clive lamely, for Hugh looked as if he would burst into tears.
"Awfully near blubbing," Clive told himself. And then, as if he felt that the responsibility of the situation had fallen on his own shoulders, he clutched Hugh by the arm and thrust him towards the window.
"Let's go," he said. "No use giving him longer grace. Let's get off to the police. We can then show them the way back and help in the capture."
Sadly and desperately did the two clamber down the ivy to the ground beneath. They sneaked away from the tower as if they were afraid that shots might follow them. Then they plunged into the copse in which their bicycles lay, and having found the latter, mounted their own and sprinted off to the village as fast as the wheels and their feet would allow. Two breathless lads at length threw themselves from their machines at the gate of the cottage which did duty as a police depot.
"What's amiss?" asked the police sergeant, coming to the door in his shirt sleeves to answer their loud and peremptory summons. "What! Mister Clive and Mister Hugh! You ain't been diggin' more pits fer Mr. Rawlings, have you?"
There was a stupid grin on his face. His insolence made the boys' blood boil. Were they never to hear the last of that business?
"I'm fairly sick of hearing of it," Hugh had grumbled on the previous day, for as is the case in the country, the tale had flown swiftly. Sly glances of amusement were cast after the retreating figure of Mr. Rawlings. That pompous individual now was far less patronising than on former occasions. He even nodded, instead of treating those who greeted him politely, as is the pleasant fashion in the country, to a lordly lifting of his stick. Mrs. Darrell's gardener chuckled perhaps half a dozen times a day when he thought of the occurrence.
"Of all the imps, them's they," he had often asserted down at the public which he frequented. "And mind you, I ain't so sure as some of their elders and their betters too, as you'd think, ain't mightily pleased at what happened. Bless you! The parson, he sent his boys away to school at once. Mister Hugh, he tells me that he and Mr. Bert come in fer a lickin'. But that don't prevent parson from bein' amused, do it? That don't prevent him thinking that it sarved Mr. Rawlings right. It's just this. You think of a man as you find him, and parson don't think much of him up at the Hall, if I'm a good un at guessing."
Whether the old fellow was a good un or not, the fact remained that the story was known far and wide, and the boyish escapade of our heroes condoned, if not actually approved of. Still, it was galling, to say the least, to call upon a police sergeant and to have the fellow casting the same old tale at them.
Clive lifted his head pompously. It was a way his father had had when in possession of the property, though he was an easy enough man to get on with. The sergeant recognised the movement. He remembered a reprimand he himself had received from Clive's father. Suddenly he lost his grin and became stern and attentive.
"Beggin' pardon," he said, "but what's happened? A fire? Or is it someone that's got killed? Or is it poachers?"
"Poachers?" asked Hugh in astonishment.
"Poachers, to be sure. Haven't I been worrited almost off my head of late with tales of 'em, and information that they was working? There's that farmer Stiggins. He comes ridin' in two weeks ago and says as there's going to be a raid by poachers up at Squire Green's covers way over by Pendleton Bottom. I gets on my bicycle, calls for Irwin, the constable, along by the cross roads, and we goes and hides with the keepers. But no poachers come along. Young gents, there was a burglary that night over in the opposite direction. There was three of 'em at it, we reckoned, and they got clear away with five diamond rings, silver forks and knives by the bushel, a box o' cigars, a bottle o' brandy and a self-filling pen. You ain't come to tell me of more poachers?"
Clive had recovered his breath by then. He was so impatient to tell his tale that he could positively have struck the sergeant.
"Poachers! Bother poachers!" he cried, though his eyes went to Hugh's with a significance there was no denying. Here, indeed, was corroboration of the story he had heard, and more proof, if any were needed, of the importance of their discovery. "We've come about burglars, your burglars," he cried. "Three of them, and a fourth who keeps watch when they're away and sends tales of poachers to the police. I heard them telling the story. They've been fooling you nicely, but we've got 'em now, sergeant."
It was the officer's turn to gasp. He pushed his untidy hair far back from his forehead, and stared hard at the boys.
"Just tell the tale straight through," he said eagerly. "You've bagged three burglars, you two has done that—never!"
"Ass! Who said we'd bagged them?" shouted Hugh angrily. "We've found out where they're hiding. We listened to their talk, and we know that they intend to make another attempt at burglary this very evening. They started shooting——"
"Ah!" The sergeant started and flushed. "Then they're armed?" he asked, with some show of anxiety.
"Rather! Huge revolvers. They started a row. Bert—you know my brother—well, he was awfully plucky. He went off to see what the row was about, and they shot him."
His lip trembled. Hugh had been too fully engaged up till now to realise the seriousness of his probable loss. But the mention of it to the sergeant unnerved and unmanned him for the moment. A second later he was watching the sergeant closely. The latter dived into the narrow opening of his cottage, reached for his coat and helmet and donned them swiftly, as much as to say that the very action made him into a real sergeant and showed that he was ready to do his duty. Then he produced a note-book, drew out a pencil and bit the lead. Having opened the book, he then looked at a watch as ponderous as Clive's Waterbury and noted the time down in his book with a business-like air which was most impressive. A few scribbled lines were hurriedly added.
"'At two fifty-two I was called by Mister Darrell and Mister Hugh Seymour,'" he read. "'They was on bicycles.'"
"Wrong," interrupted the latter. "We'd dismounted."
"But you come on bicycles," the sergeant reproved him severely. "'From information then received I learned that the said young gentlemen had discovered four burglars, the same as did a robbery two weeks ago, and the same most likely as has done others in these parts. From information received——'"
"You've said that once," said Clive impatiently.
"And I'll have to say it again. It's the law," declared the officer sternly. "It's the law, sir. 'Well, from information received, I learned that the said burglars were armed, and that Mister Bert Seymour had been shot.' Now, where's the place?"
"The old tower that's haunted."
"Ha! I suspected it. I've seed lights there of nights of late. People says it's haunted; but I'd made up my mind to see what them lights meant. It's lucky you went there first. I'd have been there to-night, perhaps, young gents. So it's at the tower? And there's four of the ruffians? That means that help's required. You young gentlemen come along with me at once. There's no time to be lost. I'll pick up the constable, and then get along to the Rector and Mr. Newdigate. They're magistrates."
Once more the officer dived into his cottage, to appear again armed with a bludgeon and wheeling his bicycle. In a trice they were all three mounted and racing away towards the cross roads, where the constable had his quarters. By the time the Rectory was reached their excitement had, if anything, increased, the more so since a dozen or more of the neighbours had joined them. Stevens, the village butcher, followed in his cart, a hay-fork gripped in one hand so as to be ready. There were a couple of young farm labourers, the local sweep, a big lusty fellow who might be expected to tackle at least two of the burglars. Ahead went the Rector, mounted on his tricycle, and very soon the second of the magistrates had joined him riding in his car, to which the Rector transferred his person, loaning his own machine to Tom, a youth employed about the village. By the time the cavalcade came in sight of Merton Tower there were at least twenty followers, while the brace of shot-guns resting in the back of the leading car showed that the band were bent on business, and were determined to meet violence with violence.
"If they shoots, why, of course, I shoot," the sergeant told Hugh hoarsely as they came nearer to the tower. "I don't like bloodshed—not me! But when there's desperate criminals to be dealt with, why, they has to have what they deserves. Where did you say you left the road to get at the tower?"
The two who had given the alarm, and had helped to discover the burglars, promptly pointed out the spot, and dismounted opposite the gap through which they had passed with their machines. The car was brought to a standstill instantly, and a boy who had attached himself to the gang a little time before was left in charge. Then, headed by Clive and Hugh, with the sergeant and the constable immediately behind them, and followed by the Rector and his fellow magistrate, the whole party thrust their way quietly through the cover of the wood which led to the base of the tower. Very soon they were halted at the edge of the copse, with the massive door within sight of them.
"That's where we got in," whispered Clive, pointing to the window above, and to the ivy growing thickly up to it.
"You clambered up by the ivy!" gasped the Rector, turning pale. "What recklessness! But we can't do that. Are the doors bolted?"
"Fast," said Hugh. "But there's a postern in one, which is padlocked."
"Then we'll soon make short work o' that," declared the sergeant, suddenly taking the lead. "Now, gentlemen, we've got to take precautions, or else we'll have these gaolbirds escaping. Constable, you just slip round to the far side, taking a few of these lads with you, and watch to see that no one breaks away. Take one of the guns, and shoot if one of the four we're after lifts a weapon or refuses to surrender."
There was determination written on the face of the officer. Some of the gaping rustics around turned pale beneath their tan. The Rector raised one hand as if to protest, and then, realising the situation, refrained from speaking.
"Now," went on the officer, "I take the other gun. Bill Watson, you've brought along that bar I asked for?"
A burly fellow with a smith's apron around his middle came forward. "I'm ready," he said. "If there's a padlock, it won't stand much from this thing. But supposing they shoot?"
"I'll be there beside you," said the sergeant at once. "Don't you fear. If there's going to be hanky-panky, I'll be first with it."
By now the constable had gone off to the far side of the tower, taking some of the gang with him. All was in readiness for the attack upon the stronghold of the burglars. The sergeant looked about him to make sure that every avenue of escape was closed, and then led the way forward from cover. The smith went with him, the Rector and his fellow magistrate followed, while the rustics came in rear, some rather timorously, some impelled merely by overweening curiosity, others because of their natural courage.
"Now, Bill Watson, do your duty," commanded the sergeant, when they had reached the doors. "In the name of the King, break open that lock."
Bill made short work of the matter. His bar was thrust at once into the hasp of the lock. He put his weight into the business. There was a dull snap, and at once the padlock fell from the door. Promptly the sergeant pushed it open and made ready to enter.
"Gentlemen," he said, turning to those who stood about him, "in the execution of my duty I am bound to enter. I can ask, but cannot demand your help."
Hugh almost cheered him. The fellow was so cool, and so dignified. One saw that he was ready if need be to enter alone, and brave the very worst. But that, of course, was out of the question. Hugh pressed forward and Clive with him. The Rector lifted his hat and stepped up to the door, and then one by one they entered. It was dark within, but a match which the officer struck showed that the way was clear. Guided by Clive, he went in the direction of the chapel. They crossed the floor of a huge room, passed through a wide passage, and then came to a doorway. Ah! the space beyond was flooded with light. It was clear that here the roof had fallen.
"The chapel," whispered Clive.
"And the burglars," said Hugh, beneath his breath, pointing to four figures in the distance.
"Forward!" ordered the sergeant sternly. "Rush 'em!"