Death Of A Stranger

Monk understood. Any more and the boiler would explode. There was nothing to do now but wait, and perhaps pray. They were going as fast as any engine on earth could take them. Sparks were flying in the air, steam like clouds tore from the stack and shredded in the wind. The wheels on the track were one continuous roar.

The viaduct was in sight, and the next moment they were on it.

Monk looked at Baltimore and saw the terror in his face, and a kind of jubilation. There was nothing now but to wait. Either they would make the end of the single track in time, or there would be a crash that would explode and send the wreckage a thousand yards in every direction until there was nothing human left to find on the rocks below.

The breath was torn from their lips; the wind burned and stung with ash, smuts, red sparks like hornets. Their clothes were torn and singed.

The noise was like an avalanche falling.

But Monk had been right: Dundas was i

And now his name would be vindicated!

There was a darkness, an even greater noise, and something rushed by them so quickly it was gone before Monk even realized they were on double tracks again. It had been the train in the other direction. They were safe.

Around them, the other men let off a cheer, but he could hear nothing of it, only see in the furnace light their upraised arms and the triumph in their blackened faces. The driver staggered back against the wall, the controls barely in his grasp. The stoker and the brakeman clasped each other.

Jarvis Baltimore held out his hand and Monk took it.

“Thank you!” Baltimore mouthed. “Thank you, Monk! For the past, and the present!”

Monk found himself gri

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