The spy's body burst into a sheaf of fire.
"Thank God, I got the Hell-hounds!" muttered Craig. "Two less of Slade's infamous army, anyhow." Though Gabriel knew it not, the first one to fall was the same who had battled with him in the trap at Rochester, the same who had trailed him when he, Gabriel, had left the Federal pen. So one score, at least, was settled.
"They're gone, anyhow," said Gabriel, "and five of us still live—and I've still got the plans and all. Moreover, the monoplanes are safe. The quicker we get away from here, now, the better. Away, and to our last remaining refuge near Port Colborne, on the shores of Lake Erie. Other Air Trust forces may be here, before morning. We must get away!"
A frightful shock awaited them when, entering the hangar—eager now to escape at once from the scene of the tragedy—they beheld their aeroplanes.
By the ruddy light which shone in through the wide doors, from the fire, they saw long strips and tatters of canvas hanging from the 'planes.
"Smashed! Broken! Wrecked!" cried Gabriel, starting back aghast.
The others stared. Only too true; the monoplanes were practically destroyed. Not only had the spies, before attacking the refuge, slashed the 'planes to rags, but they had also partly dismantled the motors. Bits of machinery lay scattered on the floor of the hangar.
Stunned and unable to gather speech or coherent thought, the five Socialists stood staring. Then, after a moment, Craig made shift to exclaim bitterly:
"A good job, all right! The curs must have got in at the window, and spent an hour in this work. Whatever happened, they didn't intend we should have any means of retreat—for of course it's out of the question for anybody to get away from here through the forest over the ridges and down the cliffs!"