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.