"It's some one coming, all right," Runnells whispered back.
"But only one," said the Frenchman instantly. "Quick! Finish your job—but don't make a sound." There was a sudden, vicious snarl in his whisper. "Pull that hat of yours down over your eyes. I'll answer the door, as you English say!"
He moved back along the pantry with the noiseless tread of a cat, and took up his position against the wall at the edge of the closed door. From his pocket he drew a revolver. It was quite black, quite silent now—save for the approaching footsteps.
Perhaps a minute passed.
And then the door opened, and a light went on. A grey-whiskered little man in a dressing gown, with bare feet thrust into slippers, stood on the threshold. He cast startled eyes on a crouching figure in the centre of the pantry, the tell-tale travelling bags, the gaping treasure chest, and wrenched a revolver from the pocket of his dressing gown. But the Frenchman, reaching out, struck from the edge of the doorway. The revolver sailed ceilingwards from the other's hand, and exploded in mid-air. And coincidently the Frenchman struck again—with the butt of his own weapon—and the man went limply to the floor.
Runnells came staggering forward under the load of the bags.
"Strike me dead!" he gasped, "if it ain't the nosey old bird himself! Serves him proper—sneaking around to make sure he ain't paying money for nothing, and hoping he'll catch 'em asleep on sentry-go!"
The Frenchman snatched up two of the bags.
"Quick!" he said tersely.
Captain Francis Newcombe raised his head from his pillow, and propped himself up on his elbow. A door nearby suddenly opened. Other doors were being rapped upon. Voices came.