At this moment Warrender heard the door creak, and threw up a warning whisper. Armstrong stopped, effacing himself as well as he could amongst the ivy, to which he clung with the disagreeable sensation that he was dragging it from its supports above. Voices were heard; heavy footsteps. After a few moments they ceased. Were the men turning to come back? Had they heard anything? Then came the scratching of a match. Warrender drew relieved breath; some one had halted, only, it appeared, to light his pipe or cigarette. The footsteps sounded again, gradually receding, and finally died away.
"All safe!" whispered Warrender.
Armstrong let himself down, and stood beside his friend.
"A quivery job," he murmured. "My arms ache frightfully. It's not to be done, Phil. Another foot up and I should have dragged down the whole lot, possibly a stone or two as well. We're fairly beaten."
"The sound inside has stopped. They've apparently knocked off work; it's past midnight. I wonder if any one's left inside?"
"Why should there be?"
"Well, there was some one up above. Is the light showing still?"
They walked some distance away from the tower, and looked up. The thin streak of light, so faint that it might have escaped casual observation, still showed at the level of the topmost room. They went to the door and again gently tried it. It was shut fast.
"We had better get back," said Warrender. "There's nothing to be done."
"Unless we try the tunnel again, now that all is quiet inside."