Mendip, as soon as he had seen that Westerham was safe, had run along the hedge, and now he gave a shout.
“This is the gate we want,” he cried.
But a third spit of flame came from the darkness overhead, and Westerham heard Mendip swearing softly under his breath. Whoever their unknown assailant might be, he was no mean marksman.
Westerham and Lowther ran to Mendip's aid.
“What's up?” asked Westerham.
“Nothing,” answered Mendip, and he got the gate opened. The three men dashed up the path and reached the door of the farmhouse; but it was made of stout oak, and securely fastened within.
They thrust their shoulders against it without avail, and then stood looking at one another, panting, and for the moment baffled.
It was then that Westerham's quick ear caught a woman's voice. He whipped round and looked across the sheet of water. His eyes were now well accustomed to the gloom, and he saw the form of a woman leaning far out of a window and gesticulating wildly.
He held up his hand to the others for silence, and then once more came a voice which he instantly recognised. It was the voice of Mme. Estelle.