He was just about to put this purpose into execution—­in which event it was quite likely that Beaumaroy, hearing his approach or his call to the Sergeant, would have sprung out upon him, only to find himself assailed the next instant by another and far more formidable antagonist in the person of big Neddy, and thus in sore peril of his life—­when the hum of Captain Alec’s engine became audible in the distance.  The next moment, the lights of his car became visible to all the men in the little front garden of the cottage.

“Hist!  Wait till that’s gone by!” whispered Neddy.

“Yes, and get round to the back.  Get out of sight round here.”  He drew Neddy round the curve of the Tower wall till his big frame was hidden by it; then he himself crouched down under the wall, with his head cautiously protruded.  The night had grown clearer; it was possible to see figures at a distance of some yards now.

Beaumaroy also perceived the car.  Whose it was and the explanation of its appearance even occurred to his mind.  But he kept still.  He did not want visitors; he conceived his hand to be a better one than it really was, and preferred to play it by himself.  If the car passed by, well and good.  Only if it stopped at the gate would he have to take action.

It did stop at the gate.  Mike saw it stop.  Then its engine was shut off, and a man got out of it, and came up to the garden gate.  Though the watching Mike had never seen him before, he had little difficulty in guessing who he was, and he remembered something that the Sergeant had said about him.  Of a certainty it was the redoubtable Captain Naylor.  Through the darkness he loomed enormous, as tall as big Neddy himself and no whit less broad.  A powerful reinforcement for the garrison!

And what would the Sergeant do, if he were still at his post by the door—­with or without that missing, that all-important, sack?

Another tall figure came into Mike’s view—­from where he could not distinctly see; it hardly seemed to be from the door of the cottage, for no light showed, and there was no sound of an opening door.  But it appeared from somewhere near there; it was on the path, and it moved along to the gate in a leisurely unhurried approach.  A man with his hands in his pockets—­that was what it looked like.  This must be the garrison; this must be the Sergeant’s friend, master, protector, and bête noire, his “Boomery.”

But the Sergeant himself?  Where was he?  He could hardly be at his post; or Beaumaroy and he must have seen one another, must have taken some heed of one another; something must have passed between them, either friendly or hostile.  Mike turned round and whispered hastily, close into Neddy’s ear.  Neddy crawled a little forward, and put his own bullet head far enough round the curve of the wall to see the meeting between the garrison and its unexpected reinforcement.