"By golly," he said. "Jeff's right. We must be flying or something. There isn't any track that's laid in this direction!"
Ferrell stood at O'Toole's shoulder, looking out into the blackness. He turned toward them, face stark with terror.
"It—can't—be!" he spoke slowly. "Vancouver is south of us, and yet...."
"And yet you're going east." The strange voice cut in on them harshly.
Blake wheeled about to face the third Silver Mask he had seen tonight. The man towered above them, a full seven feet tall. His thick lips, visible below the mask, were curved in a cruel, delighted smile.
"You've bought one way tickets," he said gruffly. "Tickets that will take you—nowhere."
Continuing, he turned to Ferrell.
"Walter Ferrell, and his daughter, Dauna Ferrell. Am I right? We are fortunate in picking our company tonight."
"As owner of this rail line," Ferrell demanded in an even voice. "I want to know what this is all about. Where are we going?"