Ten minutes later Harrison Grant turned to the guard of the interned ship, meanwhile eyeing the detectors, the batteries and sending apparatus of the wireless in the room. "This wireless in working order?" he asked sharply. "Yes." Harrison Grant stepped toward it quickly. A moment more and he was sending forth the code-call of the Criminology Club. For the spy, while not able to tell the names of the directorate of those who engineered the heinous business of disabling ambulances, at least had given information that was more than valuable--the fact that a "burning party" had been scheduled for that night--and naming the location and the freight yards. Again and again Harrison Grant sent out the call--at last to receive an answer. Then his message snapped over the airlanes to the city beyond: "Criminology Club: "Meet me Stevens Point quick. Come armed. "Harrison Grant." And while Harrison Grant waited, Dixie Mason, her automobile hidden in the shadow of the old rock crusher, crept to the side of the little shack at Crow's Crossing. The sound of voices came from within, low, indistinct. Again and again Dixie strove to hear what was being said--but only failure greeted her. Then-- A pine knot, half hinging in its receptacle, caught her glance. Stealthily she wormed it loose, to peer within. Men were there, men who were pouring gasoline into small fuzeed, metal containers, men who were making their preparations for hurried flight, and receiving orders as they did so. Already two of them were at the doorway. "Take the shortcut to the Allied stockyards," one of them was saying. "We'll burn the barns--you look after the other part of the yards. Now hurry!" They were gone, while Dixie cowered in the shadows. Stealthily she watched them cross the patch of snow and ice before the cabin, then disappear, unable to move for fear of detection, her brain seething with plans and hopes. But they were faint! The spies had taken the "short cut"--one that Dixie did not know. The telephone? There was none. The police? There was no way to reach them. Only one thing remained for Dixie Mason to do--to scramble as fast as possible to her machine and to race across country to the Allied horsebarns. But would she be able to reach there in time? The battle of wits and courage was on! Over at Steven's Point, Harrison Grant had leaped to the running board of a motor car as it had rounded a corner and shouted to the chauffeur: "Faster, old man! They're destroying Red Cross supplies in the railroad yards!" Then as the machine spurted forward, the president of the Criminology Club leaned toward his men. "See that your revolvers are in working order. Spies are burning the axles of ambulances. We have every right to shoot to kill!" The men nodded. Cavanaugh opened a new box of cartridges. The machine sped on through the semi-darkness toward the railroad yards. As for Dixie Mason--