He did not dare to turn and look into Miss Breen’s eyes. Nash had not been an engineer these years for nothing; he knew, even from the very first, just how hopeless his task would be--how many tons of rock probably lay between him and the cool night air. And then, when he finally came upon huge bowlders which a dozen men could not have moved, he straightened, passed his torn, bleeding fingers across his damp face, and turned slowly. Miss Breen, holding aloft the candles, met his gaze with wide, staring eyes. Her face was devoid of all color. “I’ll--I’ll have to rest a minute,” he faltered. “What good will it do?” she asked. He thrust his head forward and looked deep into her eyes. “I guess--guess there’s no use in lying to you, Miss Breen,” he declared, his voice echoing dully in the stillness of the big chamber. “We’re caught in a trap. There is no escape.” He half expected she would scream, or faint dead away; but she did neither. The candles she clutched trembled slightly--that was all. Despite his own feelings, he marveled at her apparent self-control. “There are tons of rock across the tunnel,” he said quietly, after a pause. “But--you knew it--all the time, didn’t you?” Her accusing voice was a mere whisper. He nodded. “I knew it--from the first,” he repeated. “Why didn’t you tell me before?” “I--I dreaded even to think that----” He stopped, biting his lips. “I wanted to keep it from you--as long as possible. I--I thought we might have a chance.” They stood looking at one another, breathing audibly. He took the candles from her cold, stiff fingers. She allowed her arm to drop heavily to her side, as if it was destitute of life. “What--what time is it?” she wavered presently. He was a long time fumbling for his watch. Then he drew it out. Somehow his throat felt very hot and painful as the crawling hands on the dial met his eyes. “It’s--ten minutes after seven,” he said. “Ten minutes after seven.” She repeated the words huskily, and, to all appearances, subconsciously. “Then--then we’ve fifty minutes before----” He took up the sentence she was unable to finish. “Fifty minutes before the dynamite explodes.” Miss Breen sobbed, and, without the least warning, crumpled to the floor. Nash spoke to her, chafed her icelike arms, bathed her forehead with the dirty water from the floor; but she did not respond. And then, as if to mock his helplessness, the candles he had propped against a rock toppled over, and, with a hiss, were extinguished by the water into which they had fallen, leaving Nash to stare through the utter, suffocating gloom. TO BE CONTINUED. A PET FOR THE CHILDREN. By MAX ADELER.