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 But Fenton Hardy and the boys had withdrawn past the turn in the staircase and were well protected.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 some one 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 a flight of stairs leading up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. At the same time he could hear a stealthy noise at the bottom of another flight of steps that led to the kitchen. “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.”