“Open the door,” said Michael. “Who is there?” demanded Gregori again. “Open, in the name of the law,” said Michael. He heard a shuffle of feet and an oath and stood waiting, his pistol extended but the door did not open. A sudden silence came. “Is there any way out of here?” “There is a door leading into the shed where the engine is,” said the girl. She was white and trembling… that shrouded figure under the table had been the last straw. Michael dashed out into the shed but it was too late. As his feet crossed the foothold a bullet struck the steel door and ricochetted to the roof. In the dim light offered by an oil flare he saw Mulberry and Stockmar hoisting the inanimate figure of Dr. Garon to the cab of the engine. He fired twice and Cunningham stumbled but was dragged into the cab. Then with a mighty “schuff!” which reverberated through the building the engine began to move toward the closed door. It gathered speed in the dozen yards or so it had to traverse and then with a crash it struck the gate, splintering and sending it flying. Michael flew the length of the shed and arrived at the outer gates in time to see the engine disappearing round the edge of the bluff. Barr was at his side and the two men stood helpless, as their enemies gradually receded into the grey dusk. “There is a telephone here,” said Michael quickly, “but it is probably laid for their own purpose.” “I left my motor-bike on the top of the hill somewhere, sir,” said Barr. “Get on to it,” said Michael. He stood listening to the sound of the locomotive going faster and faster. A hand touched his timidly. “Did they get away?” He slipped his arm round the girl. “I am afraid they have,” he said. He was turning back to the shed when the roar of an explosion set the building trembling. “What was that?” whispered the girl. They walked back to the end of the bluff. There was no need for him to speculate as to the direction from whence the explosion had come, for a bright red glow two miles away illuminated the whole countryside. “Something has happened to the engine,” he said. He did not know till an hour later that running at full speed the Atlantic had dashed into a down goods train and that the blaze he witnessed was the blaze of a burning petroleum tank which the wrecked Atlantic had crushed in its death flurry. “We have not been able to recognize any of them,” said T.B. “Do you think Kate Westhanger was with them?” “Kate Westhanger is no more,” said Michael gravely, and he spoke the truth for Kate Pretherston was at that moment on her way to France, where her husband intended joining her just as soon as his resignation was accepted. “But why give up the work, Michael?” said T.B. “I found, sir,” said Michael, “that it was sapping my moral qualities.” “Your moral qualities?” said his puzzled chief. “I didn’t know that you had any. What particular form did the sapping take?”