"HE STRODE UP AND DOWN, HIS LARGE BONY HANDS CLASPED BEHIND HIM."
Puzzled as to the identity of this solitary, wondering whether he, and not Gradoff, was the head of the gang, Armstrong backed down to make his descent. The pole swayed as his full weight came upon it, and he saved himself from crashing to the ground only by desperately clinging to the ivy, and forcing the top of the pole into a tangled mass of the foliage. Then he slid rapidly down, barking his hands on the rough stem.
"Quick!" whispered Warrender. "You made too much row."
He ran backwards, letting down the pole; Armstrong caught up the lower end, and they hurried away with it, laying it in the wood among the others. Meanwhile they had heard sounds of movement from the tower. Some one had come out. There were low voices, footsteps coming towards them. Without an instant's delay they pushed on in the direction of the river, thankful for the darkness of the night and the overshadowing trees. Only when they had gained the shelter of the thicket did they dare to pause for a moment to consult the compass. On again, but more slowly, lest the rustling leaves should betray them.
At length they came to the channel. The island was opposite to them. Turning southward, they groped along the bank until they stumbled upon the pram. They launched it, and floated down stream. When they were well past the southern end of the island they pulled round into the broader channel, and, closely hugging the right bank, rowed quietly up the river to their landing-place.
Only then did Warrender venture a whispered question--
"What did you see?"
"An oldish man, reading."
"Not one of those we have seen?"
"No. Can't make it out."