It did not take long to carry out this programme—­only several weeks.  We of the Revolution caught vague rumors of the state of affairs, but had nothing definite enough for an understanding.  In fact, we thought it was a spontaneous spirit of revolt that would require careful curbing on our part, and never dreamed that it was deliberately manufactured—­and it had been manufactured so secretly, from the very innermost circle of the Iron Heel, that we had got no inkling.  The counter-plot was an able achievement, and ably carried out.

I was in New York when I received the order to proceed immediately to Chicago.  The man who gave me the order was one of the oligarchs, I could tell that by his speech, though I did not know his name nor see his face.  His instructions were too clear for me to make a mistake.  Plainly I read between the lines that our plot had been discovered, that we had been countermined.  The explosion was ready for the flash of powder, and countless agents of the Iron Heel, including me, either on the ground or being sent there, were to supply that flash.  I flatter myself that I maintained my composure under the keen eye of the oligarch, but my heart was beating madly.  I could almost have shrieked and flown at his throat with my naked hands before his final, cold-blooded instructions were given.

Once out of his presence, I calculated the time.  I had just the moments to spare, if I were lucky, to get in touch with some local leader before catching my train.  Guarding against being trailed, I made a rush of it for the Emergency Hospital.  Luck was with me, and I gained access at once to comrade Galvin, the surgeon-in-chief.  I started to gasp out my information, but he stopped me.

“I already know,” he said quietly, though his Irish eyes were flashing.  “I knew what you had come for.  I got the word fifteen minutes ago, and I have already passed it along.  Everything shall be done here to keep the comrades quiet.  Chicago is to be sacrificed, but it shall be Chicago alone.”

“Have you tried to get word to Chicago?” I asked.

He shook his head.  “No telegraphic communication.  Chicago is shut off.  It’s going to be hell there.”

He paused a moment, and I saw 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.”