In the direction of the lane they could hear dull sounds, no doubt from the truck that the smugglers were loading with goods which were to be disposed of by the man called Burke.
“Safe so far,” whispered the detective to his sons.
They moved out of the shed, after closing the trapdoor, and stood in the shadows.
“We can’t go by way of the lane,” whispered Frank.
“There’s a prisoner in the cellar of that house,” said Fenton Hardy. “I hate to go without setting him free.”
“A prisoner?”
“I heard them talking about him.”
“Why can’t we go to town for help?”
“Once they find us gone they’ll clear out.”
“But three of us can’t do much against this gang. They’ll just capture us all again.”
The detective considered this for a moment. At last he sighed.
“Yes, the risk is too great!” he said. “And I’ve let you take too many risks already. We’d better go back to town.”
Having arrived at this decision, they moved slowly across the grass of the yard, heading toward the bushes that flanked the lane. The great bulk of the old stone house loomed heavily and darkly in the night.
Then, suddenly, they heard a harsh sound that struck terror into their hearts—the clatter of the trapdoor being raised!
XXII
Into the Haunted House
A hoarse shout came through the darkness.
“Chief! Redhead! They’ve got away. Watch for ’em!”
Someone was scrambling through the opening in the shed, bellowing in a frantic voice, warning the other smugglers of the escape.
“Into the house!” snapped Fenton Hardy. He began to run swiftly across the yard toward the big gloomy house. Frank and Joe followed.
The man in the shed saw the moving figures.
The darkness was pierced by a flash of crimson and a revolver barked three times.
From the lane came sounds of running feet. A man was shouting:
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“They’ve got away! Hardy and them boys! They’ve escaped. Look! There they are now—running across the yard!”
The revolver spoke again. But the shots were wild, for the detective and his sons were soon lost to view in the shadows of the house.
With the uproar growing in volume behind them, they fled for the shelter of the building. It was their only refuge. If they attempted to escape to the road they would be almost certain of meeting some of the smugglers. They could not go back down the passageway. If they retreated they would be driven to the verge of the cliff.
Fenton Hardy sped around to the back door and flung it open. The fugitives raced into the kitchen and closed the door behind them.
Out of the darkness came a frightened voice.
“Who’s there?”
It was so sudden and unexpected that their pulses leaped.
They made no answer.
“Who’s there, I say? Is it you, Redhead?”
Still they did not reply. Fenton Hardy crept through the darkness in the direction of the voice.
“Speak! Quick! Speak, or I’ll fire!”
The boys heard a sudden, scrambling sound. Their father had thrown himself upon the other man. The boys rushed in on the two struggling figures.
There was a deafening roar and a streak of flame. The man of the house had been armed with a shotgun, and in the struggle it had exploded.
Fortunately, the Hardy boys were not standing in the path of the shot. But the noise had attracted the attention of the smugglers outside the house, and in a few seconds the back door was flung open.
“They’re in here!” someone yelled. “They’re in the house!”
Fenton Hardy flung to one side the man with whom he had been struggling.
“Upstairs!” he called out to the two boys and ran on into the next room.
A feeble light was burning, a candle standing in its own grease near the bottom of the staircase. Up these stairs they fled, Joe pausing long enough to extinguish the candle. The room was plunged into darkness just as the first of the smugglers rushed through the doorway.
Fenton Hardy waited at the top of the stairs until the boys joined him.
Somebody in the room below lit a match.
The detective fired directly at the spluttering light. There was a muttered exclamation. The match was immediately extinguished by the smuggler who had been so incautious as to reveal his whereabouts in this manner. A whispered conversation followed.
“He’s at the top of the stairs!” said one of the smugglers. “We can’t rush him. He’s got a revolver.”
“Only one?”
“Yes. The kids aren’t armed.”
“Wait till he uses up his ammunition. Then we’ll get him.”
There was another whispered colloquy and then the smugglers apparently withdrew toward the doorway leading into the kitchen. Then, in a moment, a perfect fusillade of shots broke out.
But Fenton Hardy and the boys had withdrawn past the turn in the staircase and were well protected. They could hear the uproar of gunfire as the smugglers riddled the staircase with bullets.
“That should have finished ’em!” they could hear Snackley saying. “If they’re on the stairs at all they’re as dead as mutton by now.”
“Best be careful,” muttered one of the men. “Hardy has a gun.”
“Where did he get it?”
“From the guard. They tied him up.”
“Lucky they didn’t get away altogether. Wait till I talk to Malloy!”
“He was tied fast to the bed when we came back up the stairs. They had taken his gun and gagged him. He said they had just gone, so we made after them and came up through the trapdoor. They were just getting out of the shed when we saw ’em.”
“What a fine chase we would have had if they had got out into the woods. Well, we have ’em trapped now.”
Whispers followed. The boys listened. Once they heard someone say:
“The back stairs—”
Frank turned to his father.
“They’re going to rush us by the back stairs!”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Mr. Hardy. “I wonder if there is any way of reaching the attic.”
Frank took the flashlight from his pocket and switched it on. Just a few yards away he could distinguish
