It was still early in the evening when Arnold came down to us, treading the stair so lightly that his appearance was all but a surprise. His brow was clouded, but there was a dull glow in the depths of his eyes to tell of the passions slumbering in his heart.
“A word with you privately, Captain Page,” he said, drawing me aside. “Make your dispositions for the night so that the house will seem unguarded. If our intruders return, I would wish them to find the way to my bedside unhindered—but with two good men close behind them and ready to act at the critical moment. You understand me?”
I bowed. “You think there will be another attempt made—to-night? And if so, you desire to have the kidnappers taken in the very act?”
“There will be another attempt, Captain; of that I am sure,” he answered. “I told you this morning that Lieutenant Castner was missing—absent without leave. He is still unheard of. When he returns, I wish to see him a prisoner in your hands, Mr. Page.”
With that, he left us and went up-stairs; and when I looked at Champe, the sergeant was scowling fiercely at our handful of fire.
“You heard him?” I asked, when Arnold’s door had closed; and Champe nodded.
“We are more likely to be Castner’s prisoners, than he ours, don’t you think, Captain Dick?” he said.
“Much more likely,” I admitted; adding: “I don’t like this mysterious disappearance of Mr. Charles Castner just at this time.”
“What does it argue, think you?”
“Trouble for us. He was not able to get James Askew’s story fully believed, though he believes it himself. If you were Castner, what would you do under the circumstances, Sergeant Champe?”