aw his white hands clinch. Then he burst out:

"By God! I wish I were going to be there!"

"There is yet a chance to stop it," I said, "if nothing happens to
the train and I can get there in time. Or if some of the other
secret-service comrades who have learned the truth can get there in
time."

"You on the inside were caught napping this time," he said.

I nodded my head humbly.

"It was very secret," I answered. "Only the inner chiefs could have
known up to to-day. We haven't yet penetrated that far, so we couldn't
escape being kept in the dark. If only Ernest were here. Maybe he is in
Chicago now, and all is well."

Dr. Galvin shook his head. "The last news I heard of him was that he had
been sent to Boston or New Haven. This secret service for the enemy must
hamper him a lot, but it's better than lying in a refuge."

I started to go, and Galvin wrung my hand.

"Keep a stout heart," were his parting words. "What if the First Revolt
is lost? There will be a second, and we will be wiser then. Good-by and
good luck. I don't know whether I'll ever see you again. It's going to
be hell there, but I'd give ten years of my life for your chance to be
in it."

The Twentieth Century* left New York at six in the evening, and was
supposed to arrive at Chicago at seven next morning. But it lost time
that night. We were running behind another train. Among the travellers
in my Pullman was comrade Hartman, like myself in the secret service
of the Iron Heel. He it was who told me of the train that immediately
preceded us. It was an exact duplicate of our train, though it contained
no passengers. The idea was that the empty train should receive the
disaster were an attempt made to blow up the Twentieth Century. For that
matter there were very few people on the train--only a baker's dozen in
our car.

* This was reputed to be the fastest train in the world
then. It was quite a famous train.

"There must be some big men on board," Hartman concluded. "I noticed a
private car on the rear."

Night had fallen when we made our first change of engine, and I walked
down the platform for a breath of fresh air and to see what I could see.
Through the windows of the private car I caught a glimpse of three
men whom I recognized. Hartman was right. One of the men was General
Altendorff; and the other two were Mason and Vanderbold, the brains of
the inner circle of the Oligarchy's secret service.

It was a quiet moonlight