“Get on the wheel as quick as you can,” Quest directed.  “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

He stooped down to unfasten the straps which held the spare wheel.  It was one of his rare lapses, realised a moment too late.  Almost in his ears came the hoarse cry: 

“Hands up, guvnor!  Hands up this second or I’ll blow you to hell!”

Quest glanced over his shoulder and looked into the face of Red Gallagher, raised a little above the level of the road.  He had evidently been hiding at the foot of the perpendicular bank which divided the road from the track level.  A very ugly little revolver was pointed directly at Quest’s heart.

“My mate’s got you covered on the other side of the road, too.  Hands up, both of you, or we’ll make a quick job of it.”

Quest shrugged his shoulders, threw his revolver into the road and obeyed.  As he did so, the other man stole out from behind a bush and sprang for the chauffeur, who under cover of the car was stealing off.  There was a brief struggle, then the dull thud of the railway man’s rifle falling on the former’s head.  The chauffeur rolled over and lay in the road.

“Pitch him off in the bushes,” Red Gallagher ordered.  “You don’t want any one who comes by to see.  Now lend me a hand with this chap.”

“What do you propose to do with me?” Quest asked.

“You’ll know soon enough,” Red Gallagher answered.  “A matter of five minutes’ talk, to start with.  You see that hand-car house?”

“Perfectly well,” Quest assented.  “My eyesight is quite normal.”

“Get there, then.  I’m a yard behind you and my revolver’s pointing for the middle of your back.”

Quest looked at it anxiously.

“You have the air, my red friend,” he remarked, “of being unaccustomed to those delicate weapons.  Do keep your fingers off the trigger.  I will walk to the hand-car house and talk to you, with pleasure.”

He sprang lightly down from the road, crossed the few intervening yards and stepped into the hand-car house.

Gallagher and his mate followed close behind.  Quest paused on the threshold.

“It’s a filthy dirty hole,” he remarked.  “Can’t we have our little chat out here?  Is it money you want?”

Gallagher glanced around.  Then with an ugly push of the shoulder he sent Quest reeling into the shed.  His great form blocked the doorway.

“No,” he cried fiercely, “it’s not money I want this time.  Quest, you brute, you dirty bloodhound!  You sent me to the pen for five years—­you with your cursed prying into other people’s affairs.  Don’t you remember me, eh?  Red Gallagher?”

“Of course I do,” Quest replied coolly.  “You garrotted and robbed an old man and had the spree of your life.  The old man happened to be a friend of mine, so I took the trouble to see that you paid for it.  Well?”

“Five years of hell, that’s what I had,” the man continued, his eyes flashing, his face twitching with anger.  “Well, you’re going to have a little bit more than five years.  This shed’s been burnt down twice—­sparks from passing engines.  It’s going to be burnt down for the third time.”