From a nearby shack a lighted lamp shed its glow through an uncurtained window. Dollings sneaked close to the house. The room was empty. In a corner of the plot a clothespile rested against the side of the house. He grasped the unwieldy piece and in a moment more had thrust the pole through the window and knocked the lighted lamp to the floor. A light of triumph glinted in his evil eyes as, not daring to wait to see the result of his handiwork, he hobbled hurriedly away. He heard a scream and looking back saw a black cloud of smoke, billowing out of the window. In a few moments the thin walls of the shack had burst into bright flame and the hastily formed bucket brigade of Hopewell was laboring in vain to check the rapid progress of the fire. The tent next door caught fire, the wind blew the cinders about and they fell on other shacks and the devouring terror spread rapidly to the southward, fanned by the brisk wind--southward to the guncotton factory. The bright glare of the burning town lighted up the figure of a limping traveller, who stopped now and then to gaze back at it with a grunt of satisfaction. [Illustration: The devastation caused by German spies who razed the town of Hopewell, Va.] Harrison Grant and the Captain abandoned their cross-examination in the greater need of helping fight the fire that had broken out in Hopewell. It took no trained mind to grasp the peril that threatened the town. All its little population was out and fighting but they were powerless. The elements were fighting against them, and the lack of proper fire protection. Minna, the maid, was handcuffed and turned over to an officer, while Grant hurried away with the Captain. "Where is the powder house?" he shouted at him above the rising confusion, and the Captain called back, "The nearest one's at the quarry." "Good, take me to it." Grant could see that Hopewell was doomed. The flames leaped onward in their work of destruction. While frightened mobs fought at the banks to recover their savings, looters appeared, and added their terror to that of the flames as they rushed on to what seemed the inevitable doom of the thing that had given Hopewell its life--the guncotton plant. If the factory could be saved Hopewell might rise again, but if those scorching flames reached the great stores of guncotton there would be no plant, no Hopewell, not even a survivor--only devastation, which would mean success to Imperial Germany's plot. Grant racing toward the powder house with a growing army of men following him, shouted orders as he went. He had reached the door and unlocked it. Appointing several men hastily to accompany him, he rushed in. "Get the dynamite and detonators," he ordered.