For an appreciable moment the spy considered his avenues of escape. They were pitiably few. One was a run for the woods in case the pursuers had not yet caught sight of him. The other was no less hazardous. Drawn up on the bank was an iceboat, left on the shore by someone evidently intending to return shortly, for it was full rigged. A swift run across the inlet in the iceboat might prove successful in throwing them off his track. As the automobile drew nearer, the spy made his decision and slipped around the lighthouse to the iceboat. With a running push it slid before his weight far out on the ice. He clambered aboard and whipped the sails into shape. The wind caught them with a wild billowing and flapping and the craft glided out on the smooth ice of the inlet like a great white bird. For a moment the lighthouse hid him, and then it was impossible to escape observation. Now the auto had reached the lighthouse. The driver leaped out. "Follow him," he shouted. "I'll see to Grant." The machine plunged down the embankment of the shore and out on the ice in a spray of snow. Inside the lighthouse Grant groped in returning consciousness. About him swirled clouds of smoke. The fuse, along which the slowly creeping red fire advanced, had ignited a bunch of chemical-soaked excelsior. Choking and fighting for breath Grant essayed to rise. In fitful moments of consciousness he realized his peril and the need for help. Was this to be the end of his endeavors to help his country free herself from the treacherous clutch that was fast choking the breath of freedom from her? Were all his efforts to be in vain, and was he too, to fall a victim to that iron hand? In a moment more the flames would reach their objective. With a final struggle he relapsed once more into oblivion, as the flames crackled and the smoke rose smotheringly about him. Suddenly the door banged back on its hinges and in the draft clouds of smoke eddied and whirled. "Grant!" It was Stewart's voice. The anxious shout startled Grant into consciousness. He reached out a hand and caught at Stewart's coat. Slipping an arm under him, Stewart staggered out into the cool, fresh air with Grant a dead weight, impeding every moment of their precious progress, the progress that must take them away from that creeping tongue of flame and the dynamite.