He saw the group and took in its significance. He had now to decide in that moment with whom he should run. His mind was made up quickly; he knew he had no friends in the police force; whatever prosperity awaited him must come from Farrington and his influence.
“An interesting weapon you have in your hand, Count,” drawled T. B. “Do I understand that you have been inspecting the art treasures of the Secret House in some fear of your life?”
“Not at all,” said Poltavo, as he slipped the pistol into his pocket. “I have merely been engaged in a little pistol practice in the underground shooting gallery; it is an interesting place; you should see it.”
Dr. Fall’s eyes did not leave the face of his late prisoner, and Poltavo saw an approving gleam in the dark eyes.
“I should not, ordinarily, take the trouble to inspect your shooting gallery,” said T. B. Smith with a smile, “because I know that you are not speaking the exact truth, Count Poltavo. My own impression is that you have every reason to be thankful for my arrival. In the present circumstances, perhaps, it would be advisable to look over a portion of your domain which, so far, has escaped my inspection.”
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“It is hardly a shooting gallery, but since it is so far removed from the living portion of the house we sometimes use it for that purpose,” he said. “I have not the slightest objection to your descending.”
T. B. entered the lift. It was in darkness, as a result of Poltavo’s precautions.
“I will go alone,” said T. B., and Fall, with a little bow, closed the gates, and the lift descended.
They waited some time; Fall had the power, from where he was, of closing the gates below and bringing the lift up again. This Poltavo knew to his cost, but there were good reasons why the doctor should not exercise his knowledge, and in a few minutes the lift came back to its original position and T. B. stepped out.
“Thank you, I have learned all I want to know,” he said with a keen glance at Poltavo. “Really, you have an extraordinary house, Dr. Fall.”
“It is always open to your inspection,” said the doctor, with a heavy smile.
T. B. was fingering the little electric lamp, which he carried in his hand, in an absentminded manner. Presently he put it into his pocket, and, with a nod to his host, walked across the hall. He turned suddenly and addressed Poltavo.
“When you were trapped in this house,” he said, quietly, “and expected considerable trouble in escaping from the trap, you took the precaution, like the careful man that you are, of inscribing a message which might aid those who came to your relief. This message has now served its purpose,” he smiled, as he saw the look of consternation on Poltavo’s face, “and you will be well advised to invite your friend to wipe it out”; and with another nod he passed from the house, followed by his three men.
“What does this mean?” asked Fall, quickly.
“I—I—” stammered Poltavo, flustered for once in his life, “wrote on the side of the lift a few words only, nothing incriminating, my dear doctor, just a line to say that I was imprisoned below.”
With a curse Fall dashed into the little elevator.
“Bring a light,” he said, and struck a match to read the scrawl which Poltavo had written. Fortunately there was nothing in it which betrayed the great secret of the house, but it was enough, as he realized, to awaken the dormant suspicion, even supposing it was dormant, of this indefatigable detective.
“You have made a nice mess of things,” he said to Poltavo, sternly; “see that you do not make a greater. We will forgive you once, but the second attempt will be fatal.”
XII
The distant chime of Little Bradley church had struck one o’clock, when T. B. Smith stepped from the shadow of the hedge on the east side of the Secret House, and walked slowly toward the road. Two men, crouched in the darkness, rose silently to meet him.
“I think I have found a place,” said T. B., in a low voice. “As I thought, there are electric alarms on the top of the walls, and electric wires threaded through all the hedges. There is a break, however, where, I think, I can circumvent the alarm.”
He led the way back to the place from which he had been making his reconnaissance.
“Here it is,” said T. B.
He touched a thin twine-like wire with his finger. The third man put the concentrated ray of an electric lamp upon it.
“I can make another circuit for this,” he said, and pulled a length of wire from his pocket. Two minutes later, thanks to quick manipulation of his wire, they were able to step in safety across the wall and drop noiselessly into the grounds.
“We shall find a man on duty,” whispered T. B.; “he is patrolling the house, and I have an idea that there are trip-wires on the lawn.”
He had fixed a funnel-like arrangement to the head of his lamp, and now he carefully scrutinized the ground as he walked forward. The funnel was so fixed that it showed no light save on the actual patch of ground he was surveying.
“Here is one,” he said, suddenly.
The party stepped cautiously over the almost invisible line of wire, supported a few inches from the ground by steel uprights, placed at regular intervals.
“They fix these every night after sunset; I have watched them doing it,” said T. B. “There is another line nearer the house.”
They found this, too, and carefully negotiated it.
“Down!” whispered T. B. suddenly, and the party sank flat on the turf.
Ela for a moment could not see the cause for alarm, but presently he discerned the slow moving figure of the sentry as it passed between
