The main building of what had once been Boltover’s Cement Works consisted of four high walls and a slate roof. Here had stood the wash mills and the revolving knives which had reduced the clay and mud from the nearby river into slurry. Leading therefrom was the heating chamber and the kiln house. There was no trace of mill, though the kilns still stood. All the machinery had been removed, the concrete floor strengthened and the only engine visible was a great Atlantic locomotive which had stood with steam up day and night before the wreckage of two trucks. In each of these was a rough circular hole and the blistered paint and the drops of metal which hung upon the edge or had trickled down its blackened side, told of the terrific heat which had been employed to break through the steel walls. Near one wall were a number of small packages neatly stitched in canvas and ready for removal, and on these sat Mr. Mulberry, the benignity of whose countenance was somewhat discounted by the fact that a loaded rifle lay across his knees. Leading from the main building was a small office approached through a steel door and in this were seated the seven guiding spirits of the great raid, Francis Stockmar, Gregori, Colonel Westhanger, Colling Jacques, Thomas Stockmar, Mr. Cunningham and Kate. Gregori was talking. He leant across the table, his hands lightly clasped, his head on one side turned to the girl who sat opposite to him and a little to his right. “I think, Kate, we finish here,” he was saying. “Crime Street is getting a little too warm.” “I didn’t expect you to lose your nerve,” she said. “I’m not losing my nerve,” he said with a scowl. “I am afraid of losing my life, if you want to know the truth. We are watched all the time. They know you are out of town and are searching for you.” “They found me,” said the girl coolly. “I am staying at Brighton.” “We have made a big haul and it will take us a year to get rid of it,” Gregori went on, “but when we _have_ got rid of it, we shall have enough to settle down.” “But why do you want to settle down?” she asked. “My dear Kate,” said her uncle querulously, “don’t ask absurd questions. You know there is no reason in the world why we should not settle down. We have enough money.” “Exactly what do you mean by settling down?” she insisted. “I am not being sarcastic. I merely want information. You have taught me that it is the game and not the prize that is worth while. That has been my life’s teaching. Why, you told me if you were a millionaire,” she looked at her uncle under her bent brows, “nothing would induce you to be ‘dull and honest.’ Those were your words.” “My dear child,” said Colonel Westhanger, “I have told you lots of things which have to be interpreted in a liberal spirit. We have had all the fun we want and now we will--” He was at a loss in his desire to avoid a tautological repetition of a certain phrase. “Settle down,” she suggested; “be dull and honest?”