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But Fenton Hardy and the boys had withdrawn past the turn in the staircase and were well protected.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.