The one disturbing factor in the situation was the thought of de Roda. His mind had evidently given away entirely, and the memory of his haggard face and those strange burning eyes of his haunted me like a reproachful ghost. Manning and Craill were not likely to burden themselves for long with such a companion. Even if they spared his life, or what was left of it, they would almost certainly abandon him at the first possible opportunity. They would go off with the treasure, leaving him robbed and helpless in some out-of-the-way-corner of the world, and I knew what suffering it would mean to Christine unless we were able to save him from such a fate.
Until Bobby and Campbell arrived, however, there was absolutely nothing to be done.
I was staring at the door, and asking myself for the tenth time what could have happened to them, when a thundering rap on the knocker nearly made me jump from my seat. With an instinctive movement I thrust the barrel of my gun through the banisters.
"Who's that?" I called out.
"Who the blazes d'you think it is?" came the cheery answer.
It was the one voice in the world that I was longing to hear, and, scrambling to my feet, I plunged recklessly down the staircase. The next moment the door was open, and two stalwart figures, clad from head to feet in glistening oilskins, stepped forward into the light.
"We're very late," began Campbell, "but——"
The sentence died on his lips, and with a sudden sniff he stood gazing first at me and then at the tumbled heap of logs and furniture on the further side of the hall.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Bobby. "What have you been doing? Playing football?"
I looked at them both, and for the life of me I could not help laughing.