Still without saying a word, Fenton Hardy motioned toward the bed and indicated by signs that the smuggler was to lie down on the cot. A gesture of refusal on the part of Malloy was met by a vigorous forward thrust of the revolver and the smuggler hastily retreated. The ropes on the bed had not been cut, so they were still available for trussing up Malloy just as Mr. Hardy had been bound. The boys did the job with neatness and despatch and they even gagged the smuggler with his own handkerchief and one of the ropes from the chairs. Within five minutes their erstwhile guard was lying helpless on the bed, bound hand and foot and gagged so firmly that only a muffled and subdued muttering escaped him. “What now?” asked Frank, in a low tone. “We can’t go out by the cove,” replied his father. “There are two men down there now signaling to the motorboat. We’d better go upstairs.” “Where does that lead to?” “Outside. It will bring us into the shed near the house.” Fenton Hardy moved over toward the door. “We haven’t any time to lose,” he said. “I have the revolver. If we meet any one—” He opened the door cautiously and peeped out. There was no one beyond. There was nothing but a flight of steps leading upward into darkness. The detective went forward, his sons following close at his heels. Step by step they made their way on up in the darkness, for Joe had closed the door behind them and Frank did not dare make use of the flashlight. At last Fenton Hardy came to a stop. He was fumbling at something immediately above. Then the boys saw a faint opening which grew larger above them and resolved itself into a square of grey light against which the head and shoulders of their father were fully silhouetted. Fenton Hardy had raised the trapdoor that concealed the entrance to the underground caves and passages. Mr. Hardy looked out carefully. There was no sign of the smugglers. He proceeded to the very top of the steps, then moved clear of the stairway. Frank and Joe followed, rising out of the ground like mysterious spirits of the earth, and the three stood in the shelter of the shed. It was a dark night and the trees were moaning in the wind from the sea. Immediately before them rose the gloomy mass of the house on the cliff. There were no lights. 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.”