“Who are they?”
“Schlickeisen, Wienersdorf, La Cueille and Johannes.”
“Two Swiss, a Belgian and a native,” muttered the Colonel. “And has it been ascertained how late they were seen at the military kampong?”
“Impossible, Colonel, the gates close at six and after that hour may not be reopened without your permission.”
“Let a corporal and three men be immediately despatched to enquire after them. Then close the gates and double the [[2]]guard so that means may be at hand to send out aid if required.”
“Right, Colonel.”
“Let me also have a full report of the search in the kampong and its results.”
“Right, Colonel! Any further orders?”
A negative being indicated by a shake of the head, the sergeant saluted and quitted the apartment.
The Colonel rose from his rocking-chair. A sudden anxiety seemed to possess him. But a few moments before his face had seemed to be cast in bronze. Not a muscle had moved. Now, however, he had become restless and perturbed. He turned up the flame of his lamp and going to a safe took down a large volume. This he placed on the table and began to read attentively. The book contained extracts from the army register, that wonderful description of the whole of the Dutch Indian force which is kept posted with the most laudable exactitude at the war office in Batavia.