“Not sure—watch the house carefully—get away to my right—three yards will be ample.”
For a long time nothing happened—till just as suddenly as previously a second room flashed into light. Anthony tiptoed over to Daventry. “One of the bedrooms now—on the second floor—I really think things are moving. I’m going forward a bit to have a word with Goodall.”
The Inspector listened sagely and was on the point of making his reply when Anthony gripped his arm.
“Listen, Goodall, listen. Hear that? A car! It’s driven up to the house—it’s going up the drive now—can’t you hear it?”
Goodall cocked his head in the darkness—then turned swiftly and silently.
“Get the men to their places, Mr. Bathurst—we haven’t long to wait now, I’ll lay any odds.”
Goodall’s instructions were instantly obeyed, and Peter Daventry was perfectly certain in his own mind that everybody could hear plainly the sound of his heart beating. But nobody appeared to—nobody turned on him angrily with an order to stop the noise his heart was making—so he concluded after a time that the noise wasn’t anything like as bad as he imagined and that his fears were exaggerated.
Anthony flitted noiselessly across to the Inspector. “Stay here—all of you—I’m going forward a bit—don’t do anything till I come back and give you the word.” He slipped away in the darkness. Keeping well in the shadow, he silently approached the library. A figure suddenly materialized, peering at him for a brief moment of palpitating suspense. Suddenly Anthony felt his hand gripped in a grasp that would have made many a man wince.
“All right, O’Connor,” he whispered, “be careful not to make the slightest sound—they’re somewhere in the house.” The giant flashed back a smile, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Simultaneously the library flooded into light! Anthony in the stress of his excitement dug his fingers into the foundryman’s shoulder. “I’m going right up to the French doors,” he whispered again, “in a very few minutes from now—get well back for a moment or two in case they open them and come out.” They crouched together in the darkest patch they could find. The few minutes seemed an eternity. O’Connor’s breath came in short sharp gasps—inactivity fretted him and he found this period of waiting and suspense well-nigh intolerable. Then his heart went to his mouth as he saw Anthony go forward, very slowly and silently—on the grass as much as possible—step by step—and reach the doors of the lighted library. He saw Bathurst’s body worm to one side, seeking a favorable chink of vantage—he saw it stiffen to rigid attention as this chink was apparently gained . . . the rest he had to leave to the flights of his imagination. Then as he looked he saw Bathurst drop down from his full height and begin to tiptoe again on his return journey. Anthony answered his companion’s unspoken question. “Couldn’t be better—stay here while I go back to get Goodall and the others.” O’Connor could just see that the speaker’s face was shining with a mixture of excitement and elation. Goodall heard Anthony’s news with quiet satisfaction.
“Good,” was all he permitted himself. He collected Peter and Charles Stewart, sent young O’Connor down to Sergeant Clegg and issued his final instructions. “Your revolver, Mr. Daventry? Right! You’re perfectly certain about the doors, Mr. Bathurst, aren’t you?”