On the ground floor of this side of the house were two windows, barred and shuttered like the rest, and, crouching in a group about the one nearest the cliff, were four men.
They were roughly dressed in dark clothes and slouch hats, and their faces were completely covered with black masks. One of them was on his knees cutting methodically at the bottom of an iron bar, while a companion stood by his side, a bottle of oil in his hand, from which he occasionally poured a few drops on the saw. The other two men stood a little to one side, taking no part in the work, but watching its progress with every sign of intense interest.
When they had fully taken in what was going on, the two chums drew back into the shelter of the boulder and Dick eyed his companion significantly.
“Looks as though some one was even more interested in Randolph than we are,” he murmured.
“That’s what,” Buckhart returned softly. “Did you ever see anything like their nerve, breaking into a man’s house in broad daylight?”
At that moment the filing ceased and the watchers looked out just in time to see two of the masked men take the bar in their hands and slowly bend it upward. That done, the fellow promptly commenced work on the next bar.
He had scarcely done so when the sound of some one carelessly whistling a tune, came faintly from a distance.
The effect was magical. The man at the bar sprang to his feet with an oath and dropped his file. The other three looked around in a startled manner, and there was a brief, hurried consultation between all four.
The whistle grew louder and more distinct. To Dick it seemed that the sound came from the ravine to the left of the house, but he was too much interested in the proceedings of the masked men, to pay particular attention to it.
After a swift interchange of words, the group split up and, hugging the wall of the house, stole noiselessly in single file toward the front corner.