“Whisht, now!” whispered Jerry, as, having passed through the long, low corridor leading from the staircase, he came to a halt at the doorway. “Maybe we’ll surproise him.”
He unlocked the door and flung it open. No sound of life came from within.
“Come along out ‘o that, Cormac!” called Jerry, into the mildewed blackness.
There was no answer.
Bernard almost pushed Jerry forward into the chamber, and, taking the lantern from him, held it aloft as he moved about. He peered under the table; he opened the great muniment chest; he pulled back the curtains to scrutinize the bed. There was no sign of O’Daly anywhere.
“Saints be wid us!” gasped Jerry, crossing himself, “the divil’s flown away wid his own!”
Bernard, from staring in astonishment into his confederate’s fat face, let his glance wander to the major. That official had stepped over the threshold of the chamber, and stood at one side of the open door. He held a revolver in his gloved, right hand.
“Gentlemen,” he said, in a perfectly calm voice, “my father served in Ireland in Fenian times, and an American-Irishman caught him in a trap, gagged him with gun-rags, and generally made a fool of him. Such things do not happen twice in any intelligent family. You will therefore walk through this door, arm in arm, handing me the lantern as you pass, and you will then go up the stairs six paces ahead of me. If either of you attempts to do anything else, I will shoot him down like a dog.”