ady by now."

The men laughed good-humouredly, and the bare staircase creaked and
groaned beneath their heavy tread, which directly afterwards made the
upper passage, with its sloping ceiling, which followed the shapes of
the gables, echo.

That part of the search was quickly done, not so quickly that it did not
give time to Waller to whistle the stave of the old Hampshire ditty
three times over.

He had just got to the last bar for this third time when the butt of the
sergeant's musket was dropped with a heavy bang upon the floor overhead.

"Beg pardon, sir," he shouted down to Waller. "There's one of these
'ere doors locked!"

"Eh?" cried Waller, whose face now looked scarlet, and who stood for a
moment or two holding his breath.

"One door here locked, sir. I ought to see into every room."

"Oh, to be sure! That's my den," cried the boy cavalierly--"my
workshop. I am coming," and springing up two steps at a time he faced
the sergeant, who, with two men, was waiting by the locked door.

Waller thrust his hand into his pocket, and the sergeant looked at him
sharply, for his breath, possibly from the exertion, came thick and
fast, while the key seemed to stick in his pocket as if it had got
across.

"There you are," he said jauntily. "It's full of my rubbish and odds
and ends. Catch!"

He pitched the key, and the sergeant caught it with one hand as cleverly
as if he had been a cricketer, turned, and began to insert it in the
lock.

"Mind the snakes!" cried Waller mockingly; while, in spite of a strong
effort, he felt half choked, and his voice sounded strained and hard.

"Snakes?" said the sergeant, pausing with the key half turned. "Up
here?"

"Yes," said Waller; "at least a dozen. I am a collector, you know."

The sergeant gave him a searching look, hesitated a moment, and then,
with a half-smile upon his lip, he turned the key. The bolt flew back
with a sharp snap and he threw open the door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

STILL SEARCHING.

With a mingling of instinct and the practice of the profession, the
sergeant's two followers brought down their muskets to the present as
the door flew wide, presumably to meet the attack of the snakes, but the
curled and dried-up skins, so light without the sand that a sharp puff
of wind would have blown them away, lay still upon the shelf, and there
was no rush for escape made by Godfrey Boyne. The place, full of its
litter of odds and ends dear to the yo