On the following morning it was evident that more than suspicion had been aroused, and a hot search was instituted, for, from what Phil overheard, none in the farmhouse doubted that the escaped prisoners were close at hand. Saddling up, the Cossacks searched every corner of the fields, and returned utterly baffled at mid-day. A feed of corn was tossed into the shed close at hand, and the ponies driven in ready for an instant start; then the Russians betook themselves to their favourite bottle, and when they reappeared were evidently the worse for its contents. But they were far from giving up the search. "They must be close at hand," the man, whose voice Phil had heard so often, exclaimed with an oath. "We must find them too, comrade, and then we shall be rewarded. Where can the fools be? Ah! let us try the coach-house again. These English, I have heard, are dense and slow, but perhaps these two have more wits than their brothers." "Tony, we're done for, I fear," said Phil, hastily withdrawing his head. "This shed is to be searched again." "We must just chance it then," grunted Tony. "It's a bad scrape we're in, but we were lucky the other day. If this fellow does find us in here, why, we must just silence the two of them. It's their lives or our liberty, and I'm determined to get out of their hands. Lie low, old boy, and if these coves spot us it'll be the worse for them." Tony shook his stick threateningly, and was on the point of launching into an elaborate explanation of the exact punishment he would mete out to the Cossack who had promised his friends to thrash the fugitives, when the door of the shed was thrown open with a bang, and the two Russians reeled in. "Search the loft, comrade," said the big man authoritatively. "This spirit of our friend's is good and powerful stuff, and my legs are none too steady." The man did as he was told, and, peeping through the window, Phil watched him laboriously climbing to the loft, looking as though he might lose his grip and fall at any moment. The big man stood still for a second, stroking his beard. Then, evidently struck once more by the appearance of the covered carriage, he crept towards it. "What is this?" he muttered loudly when a few paces away. "Is it the vodka, or did I turn that handle and leave it so?" With an effort he pulled himself together; suddenly remembering that he had indeed turned the handle and neglected to restore it to its usual position, and realising that it was now closed, he gave a drunken shout and rushed at the door. CHAPTER FOURTEEN. ALMOST TRAPPED.