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 night, but I tossed restlessly and could not sleep.  At five in the morning I dressed and abandoned my bed.

I asked the maid in the dressing-room how late the train was, and she told me two hours.  She was a mulatto woman, and I noticed that her face was haggard, with great circles under the eyes, while the eyes themselves were wide with some haunting fear.

“What is the matter?” I asked.

“Nothing, miss; I didn’t sleep well, I guess,” was her reply.

I looked at her closely, and tried her with one of our signals.  She responded, and I made sure of her.

“Something terrible is going to happen in Chicago,” she said.  “There’s that fake* train in front of us.  That and the troop-trains have made us late.”

     * False.

“Troop-trains?” I queried.

She nodded her head.  “The line is thick with them.  We’ve been passing them all night.  And they’re all heading for Chicago.  And bringing them over the air-line—­that means business.

“I’ve a lover in Chicago,” she added apologetically.  “He’s one of us, and he’s in the Mercenaries, and I’m afraid for him.”

Poor girl.  Her lover was in one of the three disloyal regiments.