The way led down through a companion, along a luggage-littered deck and past the second officer, who gave the signal that they could descend the gangplank. Fay shaded his face from the Central Office men at the foot of the plank. He turned and motioned for Rake and Yeader. They hurried over the splintered dock and reached the first of the shore throng to meet the incoming passengers. “Go ahead!” said Fay to Yeader. “Lug the bag and find the taxi. Tell the driver you’re from the British Banking Commission. Pile on all the Cockney you know.” * * * * * The throng parted. Fay saw, to one side of the dock entrance, a waiting taxi. Upon its seat a form crouched. Yeader waved his hand, opened the taxi door, tossed in the bag and assisted Fay and Rake to mount the running-board and step inside. “’Otel Rockingham!” exclaimed Yeader. “Go a’ead!” The door clicked shut with a strong pressure. The driver lowered the taxi-meter flag, released the brake and moved through first, second, and into third speed with the cunning manipulation of a professional. Fay rubbed the thick plate glass at his side, glanced out at the flashing lights and street intersections, before he leaned down and opened the bag. “Take these,” he whispered, handing Rake and Yeader two heavy automatics. “Plant them on the seat. Now this hatchet.” Joe Yeader straightened with the package in his hand. He broke the string, ripped off the wrapping paper and held out a bright-looking hatchet. “Hold it ready!” said Fay. “We’re turning into Fifth Avenue!” The taxi swerved, straightened and lunged northward. Rake sputtered and swore as he attempted to open a door. Yeader bent over and tried the knob on the other door. “Did you notice our driver?” asked Fay. “Red hair and turned-up nose,” said Yeader. “What to hell kind of a bloody trap did we get into?” Rake turned and pressed his nose against the front glass of the taxi. He turned as Fay reached and jerked down the blind. “It’s Elsie De Groot!” he blurted. “It’s the dame of the garage!” “Listen!” A slight noise like a steam-exhaust sounded. Fay reached close by the seat. He pressed one knee against Yeader. He nodded comprehendingly. “The air’s gettin’ thinner!” exclaimed Rake. “I can’t breathe!” Fay dropped to his knees, swayed, and ran his hand over the bottom of the cab. He curled into a knot with his feet on the seat. He raised a hand and indicated for Rake and Yeader to bend down. “We’re supposed to be dead!” he whispered. “There’s a suction pump on the engine that’s exhausting the air from the cab. The driver started the pump when she started the cab. The windows and framework are built to withstand enormous outside pressure.” * * * * *