be able to climb down that bank and fetch water for the Residency.  On the west stood the stables and the storehouses, and the barracks of the Sikhs, a square of buildings which would afford fine cover for an attacking force.  Only in front within the walls of the forecourt was there any open space which the house commanded.  It was certainly a difficult—­nay, a hopeless—­place to defend.

But Captain Phillips, as he lay behind the parapet, began to be puzzled.  Why did not the attack begin?  He looked over to the city.  It was a place of tossing lights and wild clamours.  The noise of it was carried on the night wind to Phillips’ ears.  But about the Residency there was quietude and darkness.  Here and there a red fire glowed where the guards were posted; now and then a shower of sparks leaped up into the air as a fresh log was thrown upon the ashes; and a bright flame would glisten on the barrel of a rifle and make ruddy the dark faces of the watchmen.  But there were no preparations for an attack.

Phillips looked across the city.  On the hill the Palace was alive with moving lights—­lights that flashed from room to room as though men searched hurriedly.

“Surely they must already have guessed,” he murmured to himself.  The moving lights in the high windows of the Palace held his eyes—­so swiftly they flitted from room to room, so frenzied seemed the hurry of the search—­and then to his astonishment one after another they began to die out.  It could not be that the searchers were content with the failure of their search, that the Palace was composing itself to sleep.  In the city the clamour had died down; little by little it sank to darkness.  There came a freshness in the air.  Though there were many hours still before daylight, the night drew on towards morning.  What could it mean, he wondered?  Why was the Residency left in peace?

And as he wondered, he heard a scuffling noise upon the roof behind him.  He turned his head and Poulteney crawled to his side.

“Will you come down?” the subaltern asked; “I don’t know what to do.”

Phillips at once crept back to the trap-door.  The two men descended, and Poulteney led the way into the little room at the back of the house where they had dined.  There was no longer a light in the room; and they stood for awhile in the darkness listening.

“Where is the Khan?” whispered Phillips.

“I fixed up one of the cellars for him,” Poulteney replied in the same tone, and as he ended there came suddenly a rattle of gravel upon the shutter of the window.  It was thrown cautiously, but even so it startled Phillips almost into a cry.

“That’s it,” whispered Poulteney.  “There is someone in the orchard.  That’s the third time the gravel has rattled on the shutter.  What shall I do?”

“Have you got your revolver?” asked Phillips.

“Yes.”

“Then stand by.”

Phillips carefully and noiselessly opened the shutter for an inch or two.