“Yes.”  Only Breitmann himself knew what wild rage lay back of that monosyllable.  He was sure now; that diagram brushed away any lingering doubt.  The lock had been trifled with, but the man who had done the work had not been sure of his dimensions.

“Clever piece of work.  Took away the mortar in his pockets; no sign of it here.  The admiral had better send for his bricklayer, for more reasons than one.  There’ll be a defective flue presently.  Now, what the devil is the duffer expecting to find?” Fitzgerald coolly turned the light full into the other’s face.

“It is beyond me,” with equal coolness; “unless there’s a pirate’s treasure behind there.”  The eyes blinked a little, which was but natural.

“Pirate’s treasure, you say?” Fitzgerald laughed.  “That would be a joke, eh?”

“What now?” For Breitmann thought it best to leave the initiative with his friend.

“A little run out to the stables,” recalling to mind the rumor of the night before.

“The stables?”

“Why, surely.  The fellow never got in here without some local assistance, and I am rather certain that this comes from the stables.  Besides, no one will be expecting us.”  He came down agilely.

Breitmann nodded approvingly at the ease with which the other made the descent.  “It would be wiser to leave the cellar by the window,” he suggested.

“My idea, too.  We’ll make a step out of this board.  The stars are bright enough.”  Fitzgerald climbed out first, and then gave a hand to Breitmann.

“I understood there was a burglar alarm in the house.”

“Yes; but this very window, being open, probably breaks the circuit.  All cleverly planned.  But I’m crazy to learn what he is looking for.  Double your coat over your white shirt.”

Breitmann was already proceeding with this task.  A dog-trot brought them into the roadway, but they kept to the grass.  They were within a yard of the stable doors when a hound began bellowing.  Breitmann smothered a laugh and Fitzgerald a curse.

“The quicker we get back to the cellar the better,” was the former’s observation.

And they returned at a clip, scrambling into the cellar as quickly and silently as they could, and made for the upper floors.

“Come into my room,” said Fitzgerald; “it’s only midnight.”

Breitmann agreed.  If he had any reluctance, he did not show it.  Fitzgerald produced cigars.

“Do my clothes look anything like yours?” asked Breitmann dryly, striking a match.

“Possibly.”

They looked themselves over for any real damage.  There were no rents, but there were cobwebs on the wool and streaks of coal dust on the linen.

“We shall have to send our clothes to the village tailor.  The admiral’s valet might think it odd.”

“Where do you suppose he comes from?”

“I don’t care where.  What’s he after, to take all this trouble?  Something big, I’ll warrant.”