“Hush, you fool! No names here!”
The newcomer did not address the others, but with a finger to his lips enjoining silence, he led them towards where the high walls enclosing the grounds of the Chateau Schoenbrunn loomed up through the darkness.
Tiptoeing close to the huge iron gates, the leader of the band shoved gently. The ponderous gate swung inwards upon hinges that had been freshly greased to preclude all danger of squeaking. Just inside the gates a sentry lay securely bound and gagged on the damp grass. The chateau servants had earned their blood money.
Alan, Bob and von Schleinitz were crouched behind the thick shrubbery so near that they could have reached out and touched the stealthy intruders. Revolvers were held ready for instant use.
“Look!” whispered Bob. “The huge bearded man there is the one whom Buck trailed down. There is the thug with the twisted mouth. That fat little man shivering in the wind is the Grand Chancellor and—yes, by Jove! That fellow there who seems to be giving them directions is the very man whom Ned set out to follow. If he is here, where is poor Ned?”
The tall man whom the conspirators had addressed as “count” did very little talking. At a signal from him, Black-beard and Twisted Mouth slipped away around the corner of the chateau, and the remainder of the band slunk noiselessly over the grass to where the silent black pile of the building showed through the trees.
Alan, Bob and von Schleinitz skulked close at their heels, dodging from bush to tree-trunk, to shrub. It was harrowing work.
Once a stone crunched under Bob’s foot as he darted across a gravel path.
“What was that?”
The group of conspirators had whirled about in consternation, weapons shining dully in their hands. Only a deathly stillness rewarded their listening, however. Finally the little fat man, who was chancellor of the realm, laughed nervously.