“Fingers a bit scorched, lad, and my pyjamas ruined; but never mind—we’ve won. Here, who was working with me in the dark there?” cried Wyatt. “He saved the place, and he must be burned. Here, who are you—why don’t you speak, my lad?”
The lantern was cautiously brought forward and held by Sergeant Stubbs up over the blackened face and singed hair of one of the privates.
“Why, it’s Bob Hanson, sir.”
“Hanson!” cried Wyatt, stepping forward to gaze wonderingly in his companion’s face. “Then shake hands, my lad; you and I were never so close to death before.”
A low murmur indicative of the satisfaction felt by all present rose on the night air, Dick feeling a thrill of pleasure at this public acknowledgment of Hanson’s bravery. He, the man for whom the intercession had been made which saved him from the most degrading punishment that could be inflicted.
But it was a time for action, and while Stubbs was set to the duty of once more making the ammunition secure, Wyatt and Dick went to work to try and trace out everything possible regarding this horrible attempt to destroy their means of offence and defence.
“You see, we have been on the wrong tack, Dick,” said Wyatt in a low voice as they stood together. “The scoundrel who did all this was not after my tulwar each time, but had planned striking a terrible blow at our prestige, for we should make a poor show without our gains.”
“He must have reached the roof somehow,” said Dick.
“But why come through our rooms?”
“Because it is probably the only way down into the courtyard. He could not attempt the stairs on account of the sentries.”