"What the hell did you want to plug him for?" the latter muttered. "He
ain't in the show at all. You've done us, Red! He's cooked!"
Red Gallagher staggered to his feet. Already the horror of the murderer
was in his eyes as he glanced furtively around.
[Illustration: QUEST JUMPS FROM THE SIGNAL TOWER ON TO THE FAST MOVING
TRAIN.]
[Illustration: A PAIR OF MYSTERIOUS HANDS PLACE THE BLACK BOX ON QUEST'S
TABLE.]
"I never meant to drop him," he muttered. "I got mad at seeing Quest get
off. That man's a devil."
"What are we going to do?" the other demanded hoarsely. "It's a quiet spot
this, but there'll be some one round before long. There goes the damned
signals already!" he exclaimed, as the gong sounded in the tower.
"There's the auto," Gallagher shouted. "Come on. Come on, man! I can fix
the tire. If we've got to swing for this job, we'll have something of our
own back first."
They crawled to the side of the road. Gallagher's rough, hairy fingers
were still trembling, but they knew their job. In a few minutes the tire
was fixed. Clumsily but successfully, the great Irishman turned the car
round away from the city.
"She's a hummer," he muttered. "I'll make her go when we get the hang of
it. Sit tight!"
They drove clumsily off, gathering speed at every yard. Behind, in the
shadow of the tower, the signalman lay dead. Quest, half way to New York,
stretched flat on his stomach, was struggling for life with knees and
hands and feet.
Pages:
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110