A tall, lank form leaped from the stairs into the midst of the combatants.
Jack, the stableman, had come to the rescue.
Armed with a heavy club, he laid around him with terrible effect.
“Strike hard, cap,” he called out to Harry Hale; “strike hard, and we’ll go out of this flying.”
“Hurrah!” cried Hale, and seemed to be crazed by the presence of his faithful spy. “Give me room.”
With such a desperate fighter as Barry Brown, and with such a weapon in their midst as the club, wielded by the tall stableman, the counterfeiters did not care to contend, and they slowly gave way after a third of their party had gone down wounded, dead, or dying under the lightning blows.
“Now,” rang out Harry Hale’s clear voice, “charge for the stairs.”
“Hurrah!” shouted his few followers, and away they went.
The outlaws had had quite enough of them, and they allowed them to leave without further opposition.
Up-stairs they rushed, and through the hallway to the door.