"The last one this afternoon was final," declared Harry. He seemed somewhat annoyed by Duncan's question.
"Well," said Bruce, "I don't like it. Sitting around here when we know that Chefano and his ape-man are waiting. I wish we were going up there to-night."
"Not to-night," said the Englishman. "It will be good sport to wait. I never cared for rainy nights. They were dreadful in the trenches."
"I'm going to turn in," declared Harry.
"Ditto," said Major Weston. "good night, old top."
The two men went to their rooms. Bruce Duncan sat beside the embers of the open fire. He realized that he had been outvoted. At the same time he felt that his own opinion deserved some consideration. It was his information that had put the wheels in motion. He had a greater interest in the affairs of the ruined house than any one else — Major Weston included. As the nephew of Harvey Duncan, the closest friend of Prince Samanov, Bruce felt that his own word should be final.
Looking at the table, he saw Vincent's automatic. His own gun was in his room upstairs. A plan began to dominate Bruce's thoughts. His watch showed ten minutes of twelve.
He tiptoed up the stairs. The doors of the rooms occupied by the other men were closed. All was silent.
Probably they were already asleep.
In the darkness, Bruce found his automatic and his flashlight. He crept downstairs and, with both guns pocketed, slipped from the house.