Barnes thrilled. This was real melodrama. "Hear what?" he whispered shrilly.
"Listen!" After a second or two: "There!"
"It's a woodpecker hammering on the limb of a—"
"Woodpeckers don't hammer at midnight, my lad. Don't stir! Keep your ears open."
"You bet they're open all right," whispered Barnes, his nerves aquiver.
Suddenly the sharp tattoo sounded so close to the spot where they were standing that Barnes caught his breath and with difficulty suppressed an exclamation. It was like the irregular rattle of sticks on the rim of a snare-drum. The tapping ceased and a moment later a similar sound, barely audible, came out of the distance.
Sprouse clutched his companion's arm and, dropping to his knees in the thick underbrush, pulled the other down after him.
Presently heavy footsteps approached. An unseen pedestrian passed within ten yards of them. They scarcely breathed until the sounds passed entirely out of hearing. Sprouse put his lips close to Barnes's ear.
"Telegraph," he whispered. "It's a system they have of reporting to each other. There are two men patrolling the grounds near the house. You see what we're up against, Barnes. Do you still want to go on with it? If you are going to funk it, say so, and I'll go alone."
"I'll stay by you," replied Barnes sturdily.