CHAPTER XX

_In which Wallion shows that a great deal can be done in ten minutes_

It seemed as though a black velvet pall had been dropped over them. The sudden transition from brilliant light to impenetrable darkness, was almost physically painful, and ten or fifteen seconds passed before anyone attempted to stir; each man was listening with bated breath for his enemy's movements. A flash pierced the darkness: Ortiz had fired at the journalist, or rather, at the spot where he had last seen him standing. An infernal hubbub broke out: someone turned on an electric torch, which was immediately shattered by a shot; a dozen rifles rang out simultaneously, furniture fell to the ground, and panes of glass jingled.

"Get lights!" cried Ortiz, imperiously; "let no one escape: stand by the windows and doors!"

The journalist had carefully placed Tarraschin's memorandum in his pocket-book, and was now ready to avail himself of the opportunity; he moved noiselessly forward, and suddenly threw himself into the tumult round the door. Striking out to right and left, his broad shoulders soon cleared him a passage. A last shot was fired almost under his chin, and he found himself out in the hall--free!

There was no time to lose. The hall was dark, but the tramp of feet warned him that at least half a score of men were making their way through the glass doors. That way was obviously impossible. Towards the kitchen regions, a faint light could be seen through the half-open door: that exit was blocked too; to reach the upper floor by the staircase, was his only chance. He hastened in that direction, blessing the thick carpet, which deadened his footsteps, and took the twenty-five stairs in four bounds. As he gained the topmost stair, he dropped down on the landing like a cat, and held his breath: he had heard someone breathing close by. But in a moment he uttered a sigh of relief, as a familiar voice said softly:

"It is I, Max Raebel. I know your step again, Wallion; this way!"

He discerned a shadowy form, and a hand grasped his.

"I think we may congratulate ourselves that we have won the first round," added the Austrian.

"What about the others?"

"Oh, I told Sergius Tassler and Grath to see to the ladies; I advised them to offer no resistance, but if possible to take refuge in the gardener's cottage. Ortiz will concentrate his attention on us."

"It looks like it," Wallion agreed.

The hall beneath them was filled with light. Fresh lamps had been brought in and lighted, but a strange condition of uncertainty seemed to prevail, and two or three voices were clamoring for Rastakov. Baron Fayerling hurried forward, and the six marines marched across the hall towards the stairs, with Ortiz behind them. At sight of him, the threatening murmurs died away, and with a few decided orders the baron quelled the disturbance.

"The harmony seems slightly defective!" whispered the Austrian, "but it will soon be too hot for us here; which way shall we go?"

"To the winding-staircase on the back landing," replied Wallion promptly. They crossed the passage, and he opened the door leading to the backstairs, but immediately retreated, and bolted it hastily; he had almost run into the arms of three of the forest-guards, who were evidently on the look-out for him, and now began to batter on the door.

"The deuce!" he murmured, "this is what one may call quick work! Back again!"

They ran back to the main staircase, which was now their only chance, if they were not to be caught on that floor.

"Are you armed?" asked Raebel.

"No, are you?"

"Yes, I have Sergius Tassler's revolver, but only four cartridges left."

Ortiz' bodyguard had nearly reached the top, when the two detectives appeared on the landing. A shout greeted them, but before anyone could shoot, the fugitives had gained the second floor, where Raebel turned and fired a shot down the stairs.

"That'll just give them something to think about," he explained; "I am generous, as long as I have anything to give away."

"That leaves you with only three shots, doesn't it?" said Wallion. "Wait, that is not enough; I must get hold of something for myself also."

They heard someone running up, and the journalist stood a little to one side. One of the marines, more quick-footed than the rest, appeared at the top of the stairs. Wallion sprang silently upon him, seized him by the back of the neck, swung him round, wrested the carbine from the hands of the surprised and bewildered man, and, with a violent push, sent him reeling backwards down the stairs. The living projectile evidently landed in the very midst of his advancing comrades, and a chorus of shouts and execrations followed. Wallion examined the carbine, which was loaded with five rounds of ammunition.

"Come along," said he, "we can't stop here."

They mounted the third flight, which was narrower, and led straight to the attics, and they looked round them in the darkness. Every corner was filled with dusty boxes, worn-out furniture, and a medley of nondescript objects; on the far side, they made out a ladder, set up against the ceiling, beneath a bolted trapdoor. Wallion struck a match, and looked at his watch: it was half-past nine. Their pursuers came on noisily, though rather out of breath. Raebel seized an old high-backed oak armchair, swung it up over his head, and hurled it with a crash down the attic-stairs. A shot answered the challenge, and a bullet whistled past the Austrian's right ear, as he stepped back swearing softly:

"There's no stopping them," he grumbled; "a machine-gun is what we want!"

The journalist was already at the top of the ladder, and pushing up the creaking trapdoor. The Austrian followed him, and they both crawled out upon the sloping copper roof. The night air blew cool and refreshing on their heated faces, and Wallion let the heavy trapdoor fall back into its place.

"Shall we stop here," asked Raebel eagerly. "We could give them a warm reception from this position."

Wallion considered.

"No," he said; "we have too little ammunition, and besides, there are several attic windows from which they might fire on us."

"But where in the world can we go?" exclaimed the flabbergasted Raebel. "It seems to me, we have come as far as we can without flying!"

"Follow me: I have an idea."

The journalist turned, and began to creep along the roof, which was wet and slippery. The rain had ceased, and the thunder no longer rumbled, but the sky was still overcast, and the darkness denser than ever. Raebel was no coward, but he was beginning to find the situation far from pleasant, and muttered wrathfully to himself.

"Be careful here," the journalist's voice warned him; "it's a curb roof, as you know, and slopes abruptly."

"Where are you going?" asked Raebel.

"I am crawling down to the eaves," explained Wallion, his voice seeming to come unexpectedly from beneath the Austrian's feet. He followed his companion's example, slid dizzily down, and fortunately brought up, feet foremost, at the eaves. There, to his indescribable horror, he heard an extraordinary creaking and crashing, out in the empty space beyond the edge of the roof.

"Where are you, Wallion?" he faltered.

"Here," replied a calm voice. "Don't you remember the old oak tree behind the house? Spring right out from where you are now, and you will find it is almost like jumping on to a mattress."

"Gracious Heaven!" thought the Austrian, shutting his eyes, and without waiting for any miracle from above, he took the leap, just as two carbines were fired through the trapdoor.

It seemed an age before he fell into a network of yielding branches. Wallion's hand grasped him, and he found himself sitting astride a good-sized bough.

"A bird couldn't have done it better," whispered his friend. "This is a funny life, but at any rate, we are making them dance to our tune!"

"And where next?" inquired Raebel faintly.

"Down to terra firma again, of course!"

They climbed down, and reached the ground breathless, but unhurt. A loud shout was heard on the roof, and a shot was fired in reply from the terrace.

"We must get right away from the house!" cried Wallion; "there's just one chance in ten that we may find the coast clear."

They ran helter-skelter through the nearest bushes, and came out on the open space in front of the stable and cowhouse. But they had not gone ten steps, before lights began to twinkle on all sides, and they saw dark figures hurrying to intercept them.

"No," said Raebel, "not one chance in a thousand. It is not within human power to shake them off: they are worse than teazles!"

Both men felt that they were not up to a long chase, exhausted as they were after their efforts, and they instinctively steered their course towards the stable, rushed in, and fastened the massive bolt. Here they would at least gain a moment's respite, though they could hear the steps of their pursuers outside, surrounding the building. They breathed more easily, and looked at each other by the light of a match.

"Listen," said Wallion slowly. "If help doesn't come soon, we shall both be done for; we have seen too much, and Tarraschin's memorandum is in my pocket-book. The document is all-important. If either of us can save it, well and good: but if the worst happens, it must be destroyed. Agreed?"

"Agreed!" replied Raebel, seriously.

They shook hands. A bullet crashed through the door. The match went out, but Wallion struck another. The two horses in the stalls turned their heads uneasily, and blinked at them with great, solemn eyes. They passed through the stable, climbed into the hay-loft, and pulled the ladder up after them. A minute later, the stable door was burst open by a powerful blow from a huge piece of timber, and the place was invaded by a swarm of dark figures. Wallion and Raebel fired simultaneously, and a cry betrayed that someone had been hit; the besiegers drew back a little, and there was a pause which lasted for several minutes.

"That was too risky for them," whispered the Austrian; "they are evidently meditating something else, but what?"

The silence made him uneasy.

"I don't like this," he murmured. "Why haven't they returned?"

Wallion said nothing. They could hear steps outside, voices, strange noises of different kinds. A shout was heard in the distance. Suddenly a heavy body fell upon the tiled roof, which was splintered by the blow, something fell with a thud into the hay, and lay hissing close to them. Wallion sprang up.

"Fire!" he shouted.

A violent explosion flung him against the wall, and a tongue of flame shot up through the hole in the roof. The hay had caught fire, and was beginning to burn with a dark, smoky blaze, which spread rapidly, filling the loft with light, and making it intensely hot. In their first bewilderment, Wallion and Raebel stood irresolute.

"The swine!" exclaimed the Austrian indignantly. "The treacherous brutes!"

He would have tried to drop the ladder again through the trapdoor, but a bale of burning hay fell into the aperture and blocked it. He staggered back, shielding his face with his hands.

"Shut in!" he said bitterly; "trapped like rats!"

They retreated before the fire to the other end of the loft, where there was still one portion which the flames had not reached, since there was no hay in that half of the building. The journalist looked at his watch, and the Austrian, irritated at the meaningless precision of the action, exclaimed:

"That's right, I suppose you are going to make a note of the exact instant of our death!"

"It is just ten o'clock," replied Wallion deliberately. Over their heads, the tiles on the roof were cracking from the heat, with a noise like the rattle of rifle-practice; the fire was speedily consuming the woodwork, the roof-joists were burning, and the floor itself began to give way.

They heard the terrified horses break loose, and gallop away, neighing wildly. The two men were now the only living creatures left in the burning stable.

Then the journalist went up to the great double trap-doors, which were only opened to hoist up the bales of hay, and, as though to get air, he unbarred them and threw them wide open. A loud shout greeted his appearance, as his tall figure was unexpectedly outlined against the glare of the fire. He looked down into the darkness, and became aware of a crowd of upturned faces, and gleaming rifle-barrels.

"Is Ortiz there?" he called out.

The adventurer stepped slowly to the front, his hands behind his back in his favorite attitude.

"What do you want?" he asked. "Have you made up your mind to surrender?"

"No, I only want to remind you that I still have the Tarraschin memorandum, and it will not be much to your advantage to burn me alive."

"What do you expect me to do, then? I should be no better off if I shot you on the spot. The decision lies with you: give me the paper, and you are free."

The journalist seemed scarcely to hear him. A look of intense excitement had come into his eyes, which were fixed on the wooded ridge near the house, and a sigh of relief burst from him as he saw a white light flash out once.

"No, my dear Ortiz, I am not going to give you the document, but, on the contrary, this!" he cried, and raising his carbine he fired three successive shots into the darkness. Ortiz sprang back.

"What do you mean?" he exclaimed.

A rocket shot up from the bay, and burst in ten thousand stars. Frantic whistles were heard from the Copper House, together with an extraordinary medley of voices, knockings, shots and running feet.

"Go and see what is happening!" ordered Ortiz.

"Do not trouble, for I can tell you," said Wallion. "It is what I have been waiting for the whole of this long evening; it is my lieutenant, Robert Lang, who has come with the police."

Ortiz did not stir, but his very soul seemed to look out of his eyes, as he fixed them on his enemy.

"Were you clever enough for that after all?" said he. "I could not have believed it. I admit that I have underrated your powers. I suppose you think you have trapped me now?"

"That I cannot say: but I do know one thing, Ortiz: this is the end of your glorious dream!"

The adventurer seized a rifle, and fired at the black silhouette of the man who had outwitted him.

"You shall not survive it!" he shouted. "Farewell, Wallion!"

The journalist staggered back, and fell on to the floor. A loud voice was calling from some way off:

"The police! Where is the Chief? The police are here!"