His orders were obeyed with precision, and two men stopped behind, while the rest, with Twining at their head, pressed forward.  They ran against another door, but it also was open, as the watching man had not had time to close it.  Through this the police poured, and found themselves in a large, dry cellar, brilliantly lighted.  On every hand were the evidences of the pursuits of the gang.  But no one had time to take in details.  The startled and infuriated coiners were fighting for their liberty.  In a moment the lights were out, but not before Jennings saw Clancy and Hale at the far end of the cellar, with white faces and levelled revolvers.  There were other men also.  Shots rang out, but in the darkness everyone fired at random.  The coiners strove to force their way to the door, evidently anxious to gain the forked passage, so that they could escape by one of the two exits.  Twining uncovered his lantern and flashed the light round.  It converted him into a target and he fell, shot through the heart by Hale.  The other men made a dash for liberty, but the police also producing their lights, managed to seize them.  At last Hale, apparently seeing there was no chance of escaping in the gloom, turned on the electric lights again, and the illumination revealed a cellar filled with struggling men.  Jennings made for Clancy, as it struck him that this man, in spite of the foolish look on his face, was the prime agent.  Clancy fired and missed.  Then he strove to close with Jennings.  The latter hammered him over the head with the butt of his revolver.  Shouts and oaths came from the infuriated thieves, but the police fought like bulldogs, with tenacious courage, silent and grim.

“Hold them—­hold them!” cried Jennings, as he went down.

“I’ll do for you this time,” said Hale between his teeth, and flung himself forward, but Jennings struggled valiantly.  The coiner was over him, and trying to get at his revolver which had fallen in the fight.  Jennings waited till he stretched, then fired upward.  Hale gave a yell of agony, and throwing up his arms, fell on one side.  Wounded, and in great pain, Jennings rose.  He had just time to see Clancy in the grip of two policemen, fighting desperately, when his senses left him and he fainted.  The shouts and oaths and shots rang out wildly and confusedly as he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER XXIII

A SCAMP’S HISTORY

When Jennings came to himself he was lying on a sofa in the dining-room on the ground-floor of the villa.  His shoulder hurt him a trifle, but otherwise he felt well, though slightly weak.  The doctor was at his side.  It was the same man who had attended to the body of the late occupant of the house.

“Are you feeling better?” said Doctor Slane, when he saw the eyes of the detective open.  “You had better remain here for a time.  Your men have secured the rascals—­all five of them.”