“Hurry!” he whispered, and the three moved silently down the hall until they reached the steps.
Joe went up first and Frank followed with the light, while Fenton Hardy stood at the bottom of the steps to cover their retreat with the revolver.
When Joe reached the trapdoor he pushed at it. At first it proved stubborn and would not open. There was an anxious moment while he strove to force it open but in spite of all his efforts it would not budge.
“What’s the matter?” asked Frank from below.
“It won’t open.”
Frank went on up the few remaining steps and added his efforts to those of his brother. Together they shoved at the trapdoor, and at last it moved, then opened, falling back with a loud crash.
There was a yell from the stairs.
“Hurry up, men! They’re getting into the attic.”
A rush of thudding footsteps followed as the smugglers raced up the steps. Joe scrambled through the opening and Frank followed. Fenton Hardy was only halfway up the steps, however, when the first smugglers reached the hallway. The detective fired directly at them.
The smugglers who were in the lead fell back in a desperate attempt to reach cover, and in so doing they collided with those behind. For a few moments confusion prevailed, and Fenton Hardy took advantage of it to spring up the few remaining steps, scramble through the opening and fling the trapdoor back into place.
The Hardys found themselves in the inky darkness of the attic. Frank switched on the flashlight, and in its glare they saw that they were in a dusty chamber immediately below the roof. Old boxes and rubbish lay about.
“Where did they go?” they heard one of the smugglers ask.
“Into the attic,” replied another. “Now we’ve got them where we want them.”
“That’s what you said last time.”
“They can’t get out of there. We’ve got them cornered.”
Snackley’s voice broke in.
“Hardy!” he shouted.
Mr. Hardy did not answer.
“Listen, Hardy!” went on Snackley. “We’ll give you one minute to come down out of there.”
Still no answer.
“The floors are thin, Hardy! We can fire right through ’em. You can’t get out. We have you cornered. Better come down.”
Frank flashed the light from side to side. It was evident that the smuggler spoke the truth. They were indeed cornered.
An interval of silence followed. Then came:
“Your last chance, Hardy!”
Frank flashed the light upon his father. Mr. Hardy was inspecting the chamber of the revolver. He held out the weapon with a gesture of despair. There were no more shells.
A shot sounded from below and a bullet ripped its way savagely through the flooring but a foot or so away from where the three sat. Another bullet tore through the wood of the trapdoor.
The Hardys sprang back and, making as little noise as possible, pressed themselves against the sloping walls of the attic, keeping as far away from the trapdoor as they could.
A few more shots resounded. The bullets were unpleasantly close.
Then Snackley spoke again.
“What do you think of it now, Hardy? Are you and your boys ready to come down?”
They did not answer, for they knew that if they did their voices would reveal where they were standing and might bring a bullet. When they did not reply Snackley spoke to his men.
“Let ’em have a few more!”
An angry chorus of revolver shots followed. In the midst of the uproar some of the smugglers secured a long pole and pushed against the trapdoor with it. Before those above could avert the danger the trapdoor was flung wide open. It fell back with a crash.
A hand appeared through the trapdoor, holding a revolver, and then the head and shoulders of one of the smugglers followed. He peered into the darkness, holding the weapon in readiness. Someone had switched on a light in the hall so that the man’s figure could be clearly seen.
“Come out of it!” he snapped, pointing the revolver directly at the dim figure of Frank. “Come out of it, or I’ll shoot!”
Further resistance was useless.
With sinking heart Frank advanced toward the edge of the opening in the floor, while Joe and Fenton Hardy followed, with arms upraised. The smuggler backed his way down the steps, still keeping them covered, until he reached the bottom of the stairs.
The Hardys descended, conscious of an array of leveled revolvers that covered every movement. They saw Snackley standing in the forefront of the crowd. They were captured again.
XXIII
Rescue
Snackley stepped forward.
“So!” he sneered. “You pretty nearly got away with it, didn’t you?”
The captives did not answer. They were sick with disappointment. Just when escape had been within their grasp the smugglers had outwitted them.
“You bit off a little more than you could chew when you stacked up against me,” bragged Snackley.
“What’ll we do with ’em, chief?” asked one of the man.
“Take them back to the cave. We’ll get them out to Li Chang right away. If they get away again there’ll be trouble for you. Keep an eye on them.”
“Shouldn’t we tie them up?”
“There’s no rope. It doesn’t matter. Put a bullet through the first one that makes a false move. You hear that?” he said, turning to Fenton Hardy. “The first one that tries to escape gets a bullet through him.”
The three were surrounded by the smugglers. The light shone on their evil, bearded faces and glittered on the drawn revolvers. Fenton Hardy’s useless weapon had been snatched from him.
“Downstairs!” snapped Snackley. “Get downstairs with you.”
He prodded Frank with the barrel of his revolver as he spoke. The Hardy boys moved toward the stairs, their father in the rear. One of the smugglers went ahead in case the prisoners should by chance make some desperate break for freedom.
When they reached the lower room they paused while the man ahead lit a match. The electric light
