A quick glance showed them that the room was empty. It seemed to be some portion of the servants’ quarters — stone-flagged, and with a big, round copper built into the wall at one corner. Simon turned the light up to the roof. It was lath and plaster, supported by small beams at intervals. In one corner there was a rent, only about six inches wide — but enough, when they stood directly below it, to see three or four stars shining brightly.
“If we could widen that!” Simon suggested.
“Ah, if we could,” the Duke agreed. “But it is too high for us, my friend.”
As he spoke a single shot broke the silence of the night. It was followed by a burst of firing.
“Rex!” exclaimed Simon. “Hope they haven’t got him.” He clicked out his torch as the door of their prison swung open. Outside, with a lamp in one hand, stood the big Mongolian with the hare-lip. In the other hand he held a deadly-looking automatic, which he levelled at them.
The Duke and Simon were at least ten feet away. There was no possible chance that they might rush the man. It was evident that he meant to shoot on sight if they made the least move. Wisely they put their hands above their heads.
Then came the sound of another single shot — then another burst of firing from the other end of the Château. The Mongolian looked quickly down the passage in that direction, but only for a second; his dark eyes returned to them almost immediately, and he held them covered all the time.
The sound of shouting came to them from the garden — there were running footsteps which seemed to be crossing the big hall — a perfect fusillade of shots, and the whine of a ricochet. A man screamed — there were three more single shots, a murmur of angry voices — then silence once more.
The Mongolian swung the door shut, and shot the bolt. They were alone again in the darkness.
Both had been holding their breath while they listened to the fight outside; sharply now they released it Was Rex dead, or had he escaped? Someone had been hit — that was certain, but there had been shots after that — the Bolsheviks, perhaps, taking a last shot as Rex ran off into the night, or finishing him off as he lay, wounded, on the ground. Which? Such were the thoughts teeming through their minds.