“What shall we do?” questioned Sydney in despair. “They may murder him; and if we attempt to force an entrance they could dispatch us without fear of detection and we would do O’Neil no good.” “Come,” cried Phil clutching his companion’s arm and dragging him away. “You go down to that camp and ask for aid. I shall stay here and keep guard. They undoubtedly thought he was alone, and if they haven’t already seen us we may surprise them.” Sydney found the soldiers only too willing to aid them and he soon returned with a lieutenant and thirty men. Phil quickly explained the situation. The lieutenant stationed his men about the house, surrounding it on all sides. Phil and Sydney knocked heavily on the door; there was no answer. They tried to force it, but it was of stout material and doubly barred on the inside. “A battering ram,” Sydney cried. The willing soldiers soon brought a huge log of wood and after a few minutes’ pounding the door flew inward in pieces. With drawn revolvers and followed by a file of soldiers they entered the gloom of the house. The lads cast bewildered looks about them. “Blood,” cried Phil aghast, pointing a trembling finger at a dark stain on the polished floor. He raised his hand for silence; but there was no sound audible save the beating of their own hearts and the heavy breathing of the soldiers. Each floor of the house was searched diligently, but no trace could be found of the missing sailor; the house was empty of human beings. The boys were quite overwhelmed at the suddenness of the blow; O’Neil was perhaps done to death almost within sound of their voices. “The men who have done this deed must yet be in the house,” Sydney exclaimed; “they could not have escaped without detection; there must be a secret chamber. We must hunt for it; we cannot give up.” Despairingly the searchers moved about from room to room, tapping the wall and floor in a vain effort to discover the door they felt sure must be there concealed; their exertions were for naught. The lads finally came back to the telltale signs on the floor. “Look there,” cried Phil excitedly, putting his finger on a large hole in the plastered wall. “We heard the shot; it was from O’Neil’s revolver, and there’s where it struck. If he fired at a man then that’s his blood there on the floor, not O’Neil’s; he never misses his aim; that bullet must have gone through a man’s chest; it’s just the right height.” “Then we’ll catch them,” Sydney cried, a ring of hope in his voice, “for they can’t go far with a wounded man.” Phil had dropped to his knees on the floor and examined the blood tracks carefully. “Do you see?” he said to Sydney, close beside him, his voice low but excited, “the blood stops here. The wounded man stood here for a number of seconds, you can see that by the quantity of blood.” He pounded the board with his bare fist; but it gave back a solid sound.