Beaumaroy, hands in pockets, lounged nonchalantly down to the gate.  He opened it; the Captain entered.  The two shook hands and stood there, apparently in conversation.  The words did not reach the ears of the listeners, but the sound of voices did—­voices hushed in tone.  Once Beaumaroy pointed to the house; both Mike and Neddy marked the outstretched hand.  Was Beaumaroy telling his companion about something that had been happening at the house?  Were they concocting a plan of defense—­or of attack?  With the disappearance, perhaps the treachery, of the Sergeant, and the appearance of this new ally for the garrison, the prospects of a fight took on a very different look.  Neddy might tackle the big stranger with an equal chance.  How would Mike fare in an encounter with Beaumaroy?  He did not relish the idea of it.

And, while they fought, the traitor Sergeant might be on their backs!  Or—­on the other hypothesis—­he might be getting off with the swag!  Neither alternative was satisfactory.

“P’r’aps he’s gone off to the car with the sack—­in a fright, like, thinking we’ll guess that!” whispered Neddy.

Mike did not much think so, though he would much have liked to.  But he received the suggestion kindly.  “We might as well have a look; we can come back afterwards if—­if we like.  Perhaps that big brute’ll have gone.”

“The thing as I want to do most is to wring that Sergeant’s neck!”

Their whispers were checked by a new development.  The cottage door opened for a moment and then closed again; they could tell that, both by the sound and by the momentary ray of light.  Yet a light persisted after the door was shut.  It came from a candle, which burnt steadily in the stillness of the night.  It was carried by a woman, who came down the path towards where Beaumaroy and the Captain stood in conversation.  Both turned towards her with eager attention.

“Now’s our time, then!  They aren’t looking our way now.  We can get across the heath to where the car is.”

They moved off very softly, keeping the Tower between them and the group on the path.  They gained the back of the house, and so the open heath, and made off to their destination.  They moved so softly that they escaped unheard—­unless Beaumaroy were right in the notion that his ear caught a little rustle of the bracken.  He took no heed of it, unless a passing smile might be reckoned as such.

Doctor Mary joined him and the Captain on the path.  Beaumaroy’s smile gave way to a look of expectant interest.  He wondered what she was going to say to Captain Alec.  There was so much that she might say, or—­just conceivably—­leave unsaid.

She spoke calmly and quietly.  “It’s you, Captain Alec!  I thought so!  Cynthia got anxious?  I’m all right.  I suppose Mr. Beaumaroy has told you?  Poor Mr. Saffron is dead.”

“I’ve told him,” said Beaumaroy.

“Of heart disease,” Mary added.  “Quite painlessly, I think—­and quite a normal case, though, of course, it’s distressing.”