At last! The sickly, choking smell came up from the distance. It was one he knew and feared—a noxious gas. The roof became very low, and Alan had almost to crawl on his hands and knees, for there was no room for him to stand upright. Cramped, aching, he made his way along the narrow roadway. Suddenly he gave a sigh of relief; the roof rose to perhaps ten feet, and the road widened out into a vault-like chamber, perhaps twenty feet square. He heard a cry in the distance. “Help! Help!” It was Daniels—Daniels who came stumbling in and fell on the ground before him. “Mr. Forsyth,” he muttered, “run—save yourself—Rutter is dead—The gas is terrible. There’s danger,” and even as he spoke there came a dull roar and a flash, a terrible sound of falling—and Alan realized that the little chamber had indeed become a vault, for the force of the explosion had made the walls on either side cave in, and the entrance at each end was blocked up completely. “Too late,” murmured Daniels weakly. “I couldn’t get here before.” He fumbled at his belt, and Alan bent over him gently. “Water—water,” he cried, and Alan unfastened the basket that was slung across his shoulders, and took from it a bottle of cold tea. But even as he put it to the lips of the sick man, there came another roar in the distance, and Daniels fell back—dead. Once more the dreaded sound was heard—once more an explosion had occurred in the mine. This time there was little fire—only water—water everywhere. “Where is Mr. Alan?” asked the manager hoarsely. “Has he returned from the third shaft?” “No, sir.” “Then he is in the midst of the danger. Rescue parties at once.” But all these efforts were in vain. It was water this time—water that drove the men back to the mouth of the pit. Pumps were put in order, and for hours the men worked to clear the mine, but when at last they were able to get near the spot where the accident took place—they, as they feared, found no trace of Alan. From the second shaft the mine was in such a complete state of wreckage and ruin, that it would take weeks before it was even possible to get near the third shaft and the original scene of the disaster. So once more a casualty list was sent out, and this time was headed by the name “_Alan Forsyth_”. Sir John heard the news with a set face. First Desmond, now Alan had been taken from him. “Don’t take it so to heart, Mr. Dickson,” said he kindly. “The boy was doing his duty when death overtook him.” “I am broken-hearted, Sir John,” said Mr. Dickson. “I feel that it was I who drove him to his doom. If I hadn’t sent him to the third shaft that day, he would be with us still.” “It is fate,” said Sir John simply.