He opened the door and sped out into the night. He was out of sight in a moment, and, as far as Harold could judge, he had not been observed. Again the blows of the pickaxe rang out from the rear of the house.
Hayes closed the door and replaced the heavy bar. Then he turned to remount the stairs, and met Polly, who was standing near the top with a candle in her hand.
She was quite composed now, but very pale. He tried to ask if she had recovered, but she cut him short impatiently.
“There is nothing the matter with me. What is the meaning of all this uproar and—and the firing?”
For at this moment the twin reports of Jack’s breech-loader again echoed through the house, this time it was answered by a fusilade from below.
There was nothing to be gained by concealment, and Harold told her the whole story in a few words.
“How prompt and clever of you!” she said; “You have saved all our lives.”
Her praise was very sweet to him, but there was no time to enjoy it now.
“Where are you going?” she asked, as he turned again to spring up the stairs.
I am going to my room for my revolver,” he answered. “I may have use for it before this is over.”