I was unconscious, yet not for long. The first touch of water served to revive me, and I became aware that an arm supported my head, although everything was indistinct before my eyes.

"More water, Mike," said a voice close at hand. "Yes, that will do. Where is Farrell? Oh, Dan, this is Major Lawrence."

"One of the Dragoons said he was in command. Hurt badly?"

"No, I think not; but utterly exhausted, and weak from loss of blood. They put up a game fight."

"Only three on their feet when we got in. Hullo, Lawrence, getting back to the world, lad?"

"Yes," I managed to answer, feeling strength enough to lift myself, and vaguely noticing his features. "Is that you, Farrell?"

"It certainly is," cheerfully. "Duval has his arm about you, and the Camden boys are herding those devils down below. You had some fracas from the way things look. How many men had you?"

I rubbed my head, endeavoring to recollect, staring down into the hall. It was filled with dead and wounded men, and at the foot of the stairs was a pile of bodies.

"Twelve, altogether," I replied finally. "They—they were too many for us."

"Three to one, or more, I should judge. We got here just in time."

I was up now, looking into their faces, slowly grasping the situation.

"Yes," I said, feeling the necessity of knowing. "How did it happen? What brought you? Washington—"

"All natural enough. Clinton got away night before last with what was left of his army. Left fires burning, and made a forced march to the ships at Sandy Hook. Left everything to save his troops. Washington, realizing the uselessness of holding them longer, sent most of his militia home. About six miles out there on the pike road a half-crazy preacher named Jenks came up with us. He was too badly frightened to tell a straight story, but we got out of him that there was a fight on here, and came over as fast as our horses would travel." His eyes swept the hall. "Five minutes later would have been too late."

The name of Jenks recalled everything to my mind instantly. In spite of Duval I gripped the broken rail and gained my feet, swaying slightly but able to stand. My hand still grasped the twisted rifle barrel, which I used as a cane.

"But Farrell, the girl! Do you know anything about the girl?"

"What girl? Do you mean Claire Mortimer? Is she here?"

"Yes, her father is lying helplessly wounded up stairs, and she must be with him. Eric is somewhere in the hall, either dead or wounded. I saw him fall just as we retreated to the stairs."

Farrell leaned over and called to some one below.

"Not yet, sir," was the answer.

"Well, hunt for him. Now, we'll go up and find Claire. Major, can you climb the rest of the stairs? Help him, Duval."

I experienced no great difficulty, my strength coming back rapidly. There was a wounded Dragoon leaning against the wall, and half-way down the hall lay another body, face down. Without doubt this was the guard Fagin had stationed there. Duval paused to help the wounded man, but Farrell and I moved on across the dead guard to the open door beyond. Colonel Mortimer, unable to move, was propped up on his pillow, one hand grasping a pistol. With shaking arm he levelled it at us.

"Who are you? Quick, now!" he quavered. "I've shot one, and I'm good for more."

"You know me, Colonel," and Farrell stepped inside. "I am 'Bull' Farrell; this is Major Lawrence." He looked at us with dull eyes, his hand falling weakly.

"Farrell—Farrell—surely, the blacksmith. What Lawrence? The—the officer Claire knows?"

"Yes; he's a rough-looking object I admit, but there has been a fight down below, sir, in which he had a share. We've just cleaned out Red Fagin's gang. We came up here to tell the good news to you and your daughter."

The Colonel's head sank back upon the mussed pillow.

"My daughter—Claire—she is not here."

"Not here!" I cried, aroused by the admission. "Did she not return to you?"

"No; they came for her to go down stairs—a tall man with a black beard, and two others. They took her away an hour ago, and I have seen nothing of her since. I—heard the shots, the sound of fierce fighting, but could not move from the bed. Tell me, Major, what has become of my little girl?"

"I do not know," I confessed, gazing about in bewilderment. "She came up the stairs, I am sure. It was just as the fight began, and I had scarcely a moment to observe anything before we were at it fiercely. She shot Fagin down, and then ran."

"Shot Fagin! Claire!"

"Yes; she was justified. Had she not acted so quickly I would have done so myself. He was forcing her into marriage."

"Into marriage! With whom?"

"Captain Grant," I answered passionately. "It was a deliberate plot, although he pretended to be innocent, and a helpless prisoner. Later the man fought with the outlaws against us; after Jones was killed he even assumed command."

"He has been hand and glove with those fellows from the first, Colonel," chimed in Farrell hoarsely. "I've known it, and told Lawrence so a month ago. I only hope he was killed down below. But what can have become of Claire?"

"She never passed along here," insisted Mortimer, "for I haven't taken my eyes from that door."

"Then she is hiding somewhere in those front rooms. Come on, Lawrence, and we'll search them."

We went out hurriedly, leaving the wounded man lying helplessly on the bed, and stepped carelessly across the dead sentinel lying in the hallway. The memory of Peter recurred to me. He was not the kind to desert his mistress at such a time. Stopping Farrell, I stepped back to inquire. The Colonel opened his eyes wearily at sound of my voice.

"He is not here," he explained slowly. "Both Peter and Tonepah were sent away to find a surgeon, and have not returned. We anticipated no danger here with Captain Grant present."

I ground my teeth savagely together, recalling the treachery of the latter, his insults to Claire, his deceiving of Eric, his stealing of papers, hoping thus to ruin his own Colonel, his alliance with Fagin, his selling of British secrets. Here was a villain through and through and I hoped he had already paid the penalty. If not, I vowed the man should never escape. But the thought of the missing girl came back, driving all else from my mind. She was in none of those rooms we searched, nor did we discover the slightest evidence of her having been there. As I stood in the door of the deserted music-room staring helplessly about, a sudden possibility occurred to me. Ay! that must be the truth, the full explanation of her vanishing. She had come flying up the stairs, frightened, desperate,—so far as she knew, alone against Fagin's unscrupulous band. She had not returned to her father, or escaped by way of the hall. Where then could she have gone? The secret staircase, down which she had hurried me, and which was known only to herself, Eric and Peter. I gripped Farrell's arm eagerly.

"You know this house well—did you ever hear of secret passages in it?"

"I have heard it whispered in gossip," he answered, "that such were here in the old Indian days. Why?"

"Because it is true. The girl hid me here from Grant. And that is where we will find her. The opening is there by the false chimney, but I have no conception of how it works; she made me turn my back while she operated the mechanism."

He stooped down, and began search along the fireplace, and I joined him. Together our hands felt over every inch of surface. There was no response, not even a crack to guide us. At last he glanced aside, and our eyes met.

"Who knew of this beside Claire?" he asked.

"Eric and the servant Swanson. She told me she and her brother discovered it by accident through reading an old memoranda."

"And the Colonel is not aware of its existence?"

"I understood not. Do you know if the boy lives?"

He left the room, and I heard his voice calling down the stairs, but did not distinguish the words of reply. I was still on my knees when he returned.

"He is alive, but unconscious, Lawrence. Do you consider it impossible for her to escape from here alone, providing she took refuge in this place?"

"I could find no opening, except underground, and that is blocked now." I shuddered at the thought. "Besides, she must be in utter darkness, for I used all the candles."

"Then we must get axes, and cut our way in. Wait here, and I will bring up some of the men."

I straightened up as he left the room, and my eyes looked into a small mirror above the open grate. Good Heavens! Could that be my reflection! Bareheaded, my face streaked with blood and dirt, my coat rags, my shirt ripped to the waist. I scarcely looked human. In sudden burst of anger I reached out and gripped the mirror, jerking it savagely. Then I sprang back. Slowly, with a faint click of the mechanism, the mantel-place was swinging open.