Satisfied that it was useless to look further, Allan turned back toward the door. He was tired and discouraged. He felt that the day had been wasted. The mystery of the abandoned train was no nearer solution than it had been, unless Stanley— What was it sent a sudden chill through him? What was it brought him with a start out of this reverie? He turned his head with a jerk and threw up his arm instinctively, as a dark shadow seemed to loom over him; then a great blow fell upon his head, the world reeled and turned black before him, and he fell forward limply upon his face. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XX THE AWAKENING AT Wadsworth, the day had passed quietly enough, so far, at least, as appearances went. The strikers gathered in groups in the neighbourhood of the station, and watched the trains go in and out, with the new engineers and firemen in the cabs, but they made no attempt to interfere with them, beyond an occasional jeer. Simpson, the special delegate from the grand lodge, had established his headquarters in the lodge room, and a little group of men was constantly about him, talking over the situation. It was noticeable that this group was composed of the older and more experienced men, and it was evident that whatever Simpson had to say had a great deal of weight with them. Simpson, as has been said, was a very different man from Nixon. There was nothing flashy or loud about him, his voice was low, but cool and decisive, and his gray eyes gave one the impression that their owner was a fighter—an impression which was further deepened by the long, cloven chin. In a word, the grand secretary had picked out the very best man at his disposal when the demand had come for a delegate to succeed Nixon, for he felt that there must be no possibility of the situation at Wadsworth being bungled a second time. “There’s one thing sure, however,” he had said to Simpson, at parting; “they’re bound to have a strike down there now, and there’s probably no way to stop it.” And Simpson had found this to be true. To have attempted to withstand the white-hot fervour for a strike would have been worse than foolish, and he had yielded to it and called the strike. Now he was bending every effort to make the strike a success; or, at worst, to get out of the situation with as little loss of prestige as possible.