"Certainly. You may go to bed, Theodorus."

The porter somewhat sulkily retired to a kind of pantry, where he
slept, and the proprietor of the hotel, softly following, turned the
key upon him.

"I have my doubts about that fellow," he said as he returned. "But now,
sir, what is your pleasure with me?"

Petrus at once told him what he had heard, and great was the alarm of
the hotel-keeper.

"What shall we do? Send for the police?"

Petrus, after a short silence, said--

"No."

"What then? I cannot allow my guests to be murdered. Why, these
scoundrels have already made one attempt on Mr. Harkaway and his
friends at a masquerade."

Just at that moment a guttural voice was heard singing--

"Ole Ikey Mole
Was a lushy ole soul,
And a lushy ole soul was he."

"Now den, you nigger, be quiet," said another voice.