"Walter Ferrell, and his daughter, Dauna Ferrell. Am I right? We are fortunate in picking our company tonight."

"As owner of this rail line," Ferrell demanded in an even voice. "I want to know what this is all about. Where are we going?"

Outside the sounds of the wheels had faded. The train wasn't moving. It seemed to tip at a slight angle, as though leaning on some support.

"My name is Harror," Silver Mask said. "You're not going anywhere for the time being, and while you are here I'll thank you to call me _Mr._ Harror. Don't try to leave this car. My men are stationed all around the train with orders to shoot and look afterward. Take a look outside in a few minutes. You may be surprised."

He turned and stooped to go through the door.

Blake turned to Ferrell and O'Toole.

"I haven't got the drift of all this yet," he admitted. "But we're in for trouble and plenty of it."

Blake was sitting quietly in the smoker, head reclining on the window ledge, eyes half closed in a cloud of smoke. The girl and her father were asleep. O'Toole pretended to be, but Blake wasn't sure of the Irishman. O'Toole slept with one eye open most of the time.

The deep silence and blackness outside of the window could indicate only one thing. They were in some sort of a cave. The giant Harror had said if they looked out, they might be surprised. Yet, hours had pa.s.sed, and the place was quiet and black as a tomb.

The door opened and a newspaper flopped on the floor. Blake went forward and picked it up.

"Thought you'd like to see the big news." It was Harror's heavy voice rumbling from the doorway. "Flown in from South Station. We've been waiting to see what reaction the kidnaping of a train might have."

Blake listened quietly, and without a word turned on his heel and returned to his chair. The door closed on them again.

Blake glanced at the headline. Then the full significance of Silver Mask's latest move hit him between the eyes. The headline of the South Station Star was in letters six inches high:

MONO FLYER MISSING

Entire Train Lost Without Trace

Mono 6, crack flyer of the "Hope to Horn" mono line disappeared from the face of the earth tonight. On board were Walter Ferrell, the company's owner, and Dauna, his daughter. At an emergency meeting of the board of directors, it was admitted that not the slightest clue to the train's whereabouts has been discovered.

Soon after midnight, Mono 6 of the west coast's crack Mono Line left Hope, Alaska. No further reports came after it pa.s.sed the first five-hundred-mile zone. Reports of a wreck are unconfirmed. A complete search of the track failed to bring to light the slightest hint of the flyer's final resting place.

In the past few hours the company has faced the problem of handling thousands of tour cancellations. Officials of the line are attempting vainly to allay the fears of both would-be pa.s.sengers and stockholders. Wade Blake, Vice President of the company had previously ordered an investigation in an attempt to track to earth the series of strange accidents that have followed the Hope to Horn mono line for some months, but cannot be located at present for a statement.

Blake threw the paper on the floor. There was more to the story. Much more. Here in a few columns he had read the final exit of a great railroad line and its owner. Unless Walter Ferrell and Mono 6 could arrive at South Station, unharmed and within a few hours, the world would refuse to accept further service from the Hope to Horn and Ferrell's business would be ruined.

The article said that Wade could not be located. Blake hoped that he had been close when the train failed to arrive at Vancouver. A momentary frown turned down the corners of his lips. Perhaps Wade wasn't as helpless as they seemed to think. Blake fervently hoped so.

Since Blake had finished reading the paper, two hours had pa.s.sed, as nearly as he could guess. O'Toole came in from the car's smoking compartment, and sat down wearily across from Blake. He pushed his big feet up on the chair beside Blake.

"What do you make of it?" he asked.

Blake pointed to the paper silently and O'Toole picked it up. He read quickly, his eyes darting from side to side of the page. His face grew purple.

"They certainly pulled a fast one," he growled. "A whole train missing, with the owner of the line and his daughter on it. I never stopped to think what that might mean when the papers got hold of it."

"Nor I," Blake admitted. "But Harror did, and if I'm not mistaken, someone with a lot more brains than Harror had the same idea. This thing was carefully planned, O'Toole, but there are two points that the Silver Masks overlooked."

O'Toole looked at him questioningly.

"One was they didn't expect you and me to cause the trouble we're going to," Blake went on, "and the other is Wade. He's around somewhere. He may help us out at the right time."

O'Toole spat disgustedly.

"_We_ can cause trouble if we ever get out of here," he admitted. "I'm not so sure of Wade."

A shaft of light cut in through the window suddenly, blinding them both.

They stared out with wide eyes. A murmur of voices from the car told them that the others were awake, and also impressed by what they saw.

Mono 6 was in a great cavern. Great black granite walls towered high above. The mono train had evidently entered the cave slowly and slipped between a long row of huge boulders that held it upright. The cave was a graveyard of mono cars. They lay across the full width of its floor, dismantled and torn apart for whatever value they had to offer.

For the first time Blake realized just how large operations had been; just how close the Silver Masks were to ruining the industry Ferrell had painstakingly built up.

Men appeared from a long row of doors worked into the cliff side. They all looked alike in the black suits and glittering silver masks. Tools of every description had made their appearance. Beyond the doors from whence they had come must be a complete set of living quarters with access to the outside world.

Common sense told Blake that the entrance through which Mono 6 had arrived was now carefully sealed. If he was to solve the mystery of Grudge Harror's plans and make escape possible, it would be necessary to go through those doors. Harror himself was there somewhere, and Blake's fists ached to meet the man alone.

"My golly," O'Toole breathed. "They all look alike. What you suppose they'll do with us? Must be forty or fifty people on this set of cars."

Blake turned away from the window.

"If the train were wrecked," he said in a matter of fact voice, "they'd take everything off it and leave it here. With pa.s.sengers on board, they have to remove the baggage and movable parts. After that...."

"After that, we'll all go to h.e.l.l the fastest way," O'Toole said with grim lips. "Let's get something started. I can't sit still until they decide what to do with us."

"If I'm not mistaken," Blake said grimly, "they have us all disposed of well in advance. You mentioned just one thing that may help us out."

"If I did," O'Toole admitted, "It was just crazy luck."

"They all look alike." Blake stood up, studied O'Toole carefully, and said. "We're going to join the gang of the Silver Masks."

O'Toole grinned.

"Just like that," he said dryly. "And this guy Harror is going to shake our hands and say, 'Glad to see you're with us, boys.'"

Blake was already out of the smoking lounge. He went toward the end of the car with a swift, determined stride. Ferrell and Dauna had been at the window and as he approached the door leading outside, they turned.

"Hold it, Jeff," Ferrell said. "You're going to do something foolish and I won't have it."

"We've already got ourselves into a pretty foolish mess," Blake reminded him almost bitterly. "If I can do any good by trying, I don't want you to interfere. It may be too late."

Dauna barred his way to the door. Her face was drawn and bloodless.