QUEST JUMPS FROM THE SIGNAL TOWER ON TO THE FAST MOVING TRAIN.
A PAIR OF MYSTERIOUS HANDS PLACE THE BLACK BOX ON QUEST’S TABLE.
“I never meant to drop him,” he muttered. “I got mad at seeing Quest get off. That man’s a devil.”
“What are we going to do?” the other demanded hoarsely. “It’s a quiet spot this, but there’ll be some one round before long. There goes the damned signals already!” he exclaimed, as the gong sounded in the tower.
“There’s the auto,” Gallagher shouted. “Come on. Come on, man! I can fix the tire. If we’ve got to swing for this job, we’ll have something of our own back first.”
They crawled to the side of the road. Gallagher’s rough, hairy fingers were still trembling, but they knew their job. In a few minutes the tire was fixed. Clumsily but successfully, the great Irishman turned the car round away from the city.
“She’s a hummer,” he muttered. “I’ll make her go when we get the hang of it. Sit tight!”
They drove clumsily off, gathering speed at every yard. Behind, in the shadow of the tower, the signalman lay dead. Quest, half way to New York, stretched flat on his stomach, was struggling for life with knees and hands and feet.