“Steady there. Kindly remember I’m a trifle fragile.”
“What’s this infernal plot? Where’s Whittingham?”
“Ah, it’s McGregor,” said Johnny, with a bland smile, “and Martin. How are you, old fellow? Some beast’s hit me on the head.”
“Where’s Whittingham?” reiterated the colonel, savagely shaking Johnny’s arm.
“Gently!” said I; “after all, he’s a sick man.”
The colonel dropped the arm with a muttered oath, and Johnny said, sweetly:
“Quits, isn’t it, colonel?”
The colonel turned from him, and said to his men sternly:
“Have you had any hand in this?”
They protested vehemently that they were as astonished as we were; and so they were, unless they acted consummately. They denied that anyone had entered the outer room or that any sound had proceeded from the inner. They swore they had kept vigilant watch, and must have seen an intruder. Both the men inside were the colonel’s personal servants, and he believed their honesty; but what of their vigilance?