“Yes—I heard it. But what was he doing here?”
“That is yet to be found out,” was the reply, in a sharp, strained voice. “This is Cartoner's work.”
“I doubt it,” whispered Martin. And yet in his heart he could scarcely doubt it at that moment. Nothing was further from his recollection than the note he had given to Netty in the Saski Gardens ten hours ago.
“What does it mean?” he asked, with a sudden despair in his voice. He had always been lucky and successful.
“It means,” answered the man who had never been either, “that the place is surrounded, of course. They have got the arms, and we have failed—this time. Take the horses back towards the barracks—and wait for me where the water is across the road. I will go forward on foot and make sure. If I do not return in twenty minutes it will mean that they have taken me.”
As he spoke he took off his white overcoat, which was all gray and bespattered with mud, and threw it across the saddle. His working clothes were sombre and dirty. He was almost invisible in the darkness.
“Wait a moment,” he said. “I will get over the wall here. Bring your horse against the wall.”
Martin did so, avoiding the body of the sentry, which lay stretched across the foot-path. The wall was eighteen feet high.
“Stand in your stirrups,” said Kosmaroff, “and hold one arm up rigid against the wall.”
He was already standing on the broad back of the charger, steadying himself by a firm grip of Martin's collar. He climbed higher, standing on Martin's shoulders, and steadying himself against the wall.