“At—at eight o’clock!” exclaimed Nash. “What are you talking about? It isn’t that time yet.”
“What’s the matter with your watch?” The foreman was laughing. “Why, it’s blamed near nine.”
Nash frowned. “Take care of Miss Breen,” he said. “She’s fainted, I guess.”
One of the men handed him his watch. He looked at it. The hands marked eight-forty. Then, in a flash, he understood. Miss Breen had, for some reason or other, lied to him.
“How in the deuce did you get wedged in here?” the foreman interrupted.
“Miss Breen and I were inspecting the rock chamber. The tunnel caved in—must have cut the wires at the same time. Then I discovered the air vent, and we managed to get out—that is, Miss Breen did. Something’s got my legs in a vise.”
Luckily the men were prepared for trouble, and they had brought some tools. So, after fifteen minutes of hard work, Nash was released. His legs were cut and cramped, but otherwise he was uninjured.
As soon as he had restored the circulation to his stiff legs by walking around for a minute or two, he concerned himself with Miss Breen. She was still in a dead faint.
“Plucky girl,” he muttered to himself. “Didn’t faint until it was all over. And a spotter, too.” He looked down into her white face. “Wonder why she lied to me about the time?”
An idea did come to him that might have explained this last, and, although he would have liked to believe it, the thing seemed all but impossible.