CHAPTER XII

SPEAKS OF THE MANNER IN WHICH THE GATES OF SCHWARTZBERG WERE OPENED

Through the fragments of the window sash and the shreds of the blind, Bat Scanlon looked out upon the moonlit night. Directly under the window was a roof, as near as he could judge, that of the stable. Between this and the top of the wall there was a space of some twelve feet.

“And the fellow with the cough took it like a broad jumper,” commented Bat. “Well, well, we live and learn.”

Then a light illuminated the room behind him; he turned and met the wondering face of Miss Knowles.

“What has happened?” she asked, rather breathlessly.

Bat surveyed her with much composure. He had been right in his estimate of her beauty; that wasn’t to be denied. He was sure he’d never seen a more splendid example of her type. Her figure was like that of the queen in a story-book. Her complexion was like snow and rose petals; her eyes were as deep and as blue as the sea.

“If I hadn’t regular good reasons for believing what I do, one look at her would scatter the whole fleet of suspicion,” was Bat’s thought as he gazed. “She does it well. I never saw a better attempt at bluff. Ten minutes ago she was talking to the crook; now here she is, asking as innocently as you please: ‘What has happened?’”

“I heard a noise as I sat in my room,” said Miss Knowles. “I heard shots,” her face a trifle paler. “Has any one been hurt?”

“No such luck,” replied Mr. Scanlon. He replaced the automatic in his pocket and his broad back against the wall. “Fellow was just here making free with some papers. I chanced to catch him, and he headed for the window.”

The girl approached the table and looked at the papers curiously; her hands wandered among them and her eyes scanned one after another.

“Did he take any of them?” she asked.

A shock ran through the large frame of Mr. Scanlon; for it occurred to him that he did not know. He was busy wrestling with this somewhat unpleasant thought when hasty feet were heard tramping along the hall; and in another moment Campe and the sergeant-major were in the room.

“Who was it?” asked Campe. “Did you see him, Scanlon?”

“I did,” replied Bat. “And I let fly at him.”

Then in as few words as possible he related his experiences since leaving Campe on guard over the unconscious prowler; he was careful, however, to omit that part of it which dealt with the whispering and the rustling of skirts in the hall-way.

“Whatever his game is,” concluded the big man, “he was a pal of the fellow you’ve got down the hall.” Here he caught the expression that came into Campe’s face; at the same instant he noted that Miss Knowles had left the room. How long she had been gone he did not know; but it must have been while he was deep in his narrative. “The man’s still there, ain’t he?” he asked Campe.

“When I heard the shots I left the room,” said the young man. “Then Kretz ran upstairs, and we came hunting you.”

Without a word Bat rushed along the hall; the door of his room was open, and the soft man was gone. Then down the stairs went Bat, three at a leap. The plug still held in the bolt of the cellar door, so he was sure that the prowler had not gone that way. There was only one other way of escape. The gate! And when he reached the courtyard the gate stood wide; the watch dogs were running in and out, whining uncertainly and apparently still much excited.

Both Campe and the German soldier had pressed hard after Scanlon; and the young master of Schwartzberg was aware of the truth as soon as the big man.

“He’s gone,” said he, in a husky kind of way. “Gone!”

“Well, if he’ll only stay gone, it’ll be all right,” spoke Mr. Scanlon. “And while we’re thinking over the possibilities of that,” to Kretz, “suppose you shut the gate.”

The sergeant-major did as requested; at the order of young Campe, he mounted guard upon the wall once more, and then both Campe and Scanlon made a complete search of the castle; every nook and crevice was examined, but evidently if there had been others they had also taken occasion to depart with the opening of the portal.

“The gentlemen who are in the habit of visiting you,” remarked Mr. Scanlon to the master of Schwartzberg, “are very self-possessed, and have more than the usual share of grey matter. I never saw any one collection of persons with more up their sleeves than this lot appears to have.”

“They are cunning enough,” said the other; and there was a hopeless note in his voice. “Sufficiently so to get the better of me, at all events.”

“In a fight like this,” advised Mr. Scanlon, “never admit, even to yourself, that the opposition is on top of you. It has a bad effect. Even the best of us has no real liking for a bruising battle, if we get the bruising; and we’re only looking for an excuse to side step. And thoughts like those provide the excuse.”

At the cellar door Campe stopped.

“We’ll not venture into the vaults,” said he, in a tired way. His face had the sagged look which hopelessness brings, and his eyes were dull and weary. “It may not be safe.”

“It’s clear enough to me,” said Scanlon, bluntly, “that some one has pretty plain sailing into these cellars of yours. They seem to come piling in whenever the spirit moves them. I’d do something in the matter if I were you, even if it was only to post a warning to trespassers.”

“There must be a way of getting in,” admitted Campe, dully. “I made up my mind to that some time ago. But,” and his voice broke into a sharpness that startled Scanlon, “a man whose life is in danger every moment of it can’t take too many chances.”

Bat put his hands on the young man’s shoulders and looked steadily into his face.

“Hold up!” said he, “Hold up! You’re up against something raw and hard. But don’t let them stop you. No matter what the thing is--sit tight. You’re going to win out.”

“Win!” Campe threw up his hands and laughed mirthlessly. “You don’t know the facts or you wouldn’t say that.”

“Maybe I’m not on to _all_ the facts,” said Bat, stuffing his hands into his pockets, “but I’m on to the very worst of the lot. And even in spite of that, I say you’ll win.”

“The worst!” said Campe, and his eyes searched Bat’s face. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just that--the worst! Listen. One time when I was a youngster I was out with old Dick Bunder, packing stuff out to Gabriel City. Now Gabriel was out on the desert and was made up of a half dozen houses and a few tents around a water-hole. The first night I spent in the place it was attacked by Apaches, and the thing went on for days. Bitter, cruel work it was in the heat, with no sleep, and death barking always from across the sands. The Apaches were bad, but,” and Bat shook his head, “there was something worse.”

“Yes?” said young Campe.

“Much worse,” affirmed Bat. “And it was inside. Somebody was calling off our hands to the enemy.”

Campe’s face grew rigid; his mouth twitched and one shaking hand went to it as though to hide his weakness.

“Some one inside,” said he. “Inside! Yes, that’s a fearful thing. Outside’s bad enough. But the other.” He stood, his fingers pressing against his lips for a moment; then he asked, suddenly, “Did you find the person out?”

“I did,” answered the big man. “And I have found out the one in Schwartzberg.”

Campe stretched out the shaking hand and laid it against Scanlon’s chest.

“Don’t say anything more,” said he. “Not her name, for God’s sake! I couldn’t stand that!”