Chester wiped his brow with his hand, and his hand came away wet. Holding it close to his eyes as he ran, Chester saw blood. A bullet had struck him a glancing blow on the side of the head, but in the excitement of the moment he had not realized that he was wounded.
At the end of the passageway the lad emerged into another room. There was not a window in the room, and, glancing hurriedly about, Chester espied a pair of stairs. Quickly he leaped up these, and came into what apparently at one time had been a kitchen.
The boy's gaze roved hastily about for a means of exit. He tried the door, but it was locked. Twice he threw his whole weight against it, but it did not budge. He looked at the windows. For some reason, they were heavily barred.
Chester put the muzzle of his automatic to the keyhole of the door and fired. The lock was blown entirely away, and the door flew open beneath the lad's weight.
Not hesitating, the lad leaped through the next room and sped into the hall beyond. He could clearly see that his way now led to the front door, and he made for it at a run. He grasped the knob and gave a quick wrench, but the door would not open.
He sought for the key to turn it, but there was no key. Evidently the family, upon going away, had barred it from the outside. From behind, the boy could hear the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and he knew that every moment's delay spelled disaster and almost certain death.
He picked up a chair, and with a single blow shattered the glass front of the door. He drew the leg of the chair across the ragged pieces of glass left at the bottom, and then, dropping the chair, drew himself up.
Just as he was about to tumble out on the far side, four men dashed up the steps with drawn revolvers. Chester took in the situation at a glance. He was between two fires, and escape was impossible.
"Well," he told himself quietly, "I guess it's all up with me this time."
He dropped back inside and faced his pursuers. Throwing his now useless revolver to the floor, he raised both hands.