Ten feet behind Chester was a door. He had noticed it when he first
entered the room, and had decided that there lay whatever chance he had
for safety should he be discovered. Quickly, and still stooping, he ran
toward the door.
And even as he reached it a match flared up and a bullet whistled by his
ear. But the door was unlocked and gave before the boy's weight, and as,
after passing safely through it, he turned to close it in the faces of
his enemies, one man blocked him, his arm raised to fire.
But Chester's revolver rang out first. The lad had fired from his hip,
and the man went sprawling.
The lad turned his weapon on the others who now rushed toward him, and
fired three rapid shots. Then he slammed the door shut, bolted it with a
single movement, and, turning, ran along the dark passageway, at the end
of which he could discern a dim light.
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.
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