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“Sulphur!” Whispered the people, with a shiver of superstition. “Sulphur!”

It was chlorine!

The shrill cries of women, the sobs of bereaved mothers, sounded for an instant above the hoarse clamor of the mob. And above the sun shone brilliantly from an unclouded vault of deepest, loveliest blue. A soft sea-breeze gently swayed the flags and flowers, the great steamers and graceful yachts swung peacefully at their moorings, while little boats skimmed lightly over the sparkling wavelets under the burden of their snowy sails, symbols of peace, of calm, and of prosperity.

In the works anxiety was extreme; the very air was tense with the strivings of men and machinery. Mr. Morton, the chief electrician, was engrossed in his dynamos, which were running at full pressure, overloaded in the endeavor to supply the torrents of electricity demanded by the train below. Apprehensions as to his precious plant diverted his mind somewhat from the possibly imminent catastrophe. The chief engineer of works, Mr. Harlow, in a fury of rage at his own impotence, stormed up and down, cursing the elements, the treacherous soil, and the invading sea, which he had thought to hold in leash.

Mr. Glencoe had completely broken down. It had become second nature to him to give orders and have them blindly obeyed, to impose his will on everyone, to insist that he knew best on every subject, technical as well as financial. All must bend before his will. A latent antagonism, a secret resentment, had divided him from his staff, and more especially from James Harward, who would not always admit the director-manager’s omniscience. Now, in the hour of danger, Mr. Glencoe’s authority seemed to fall from him; he had no suggestions to make, no orders to impose today.

Returned from the telegraph-office, the prying reporter set himself to fathom the tragic problem, to find out the exact circumstances of the catastrophe. He prowled bout, waiting on chance and scanning the faces of the officials.

At this moment the news was brought that the tunnel was vomiting forth torrents of chlorine.

“The current has electrified the sea-water,” said the electrician: “Those poor people below will be asphyxiated.”

“Hadn’t we better stop the dynamos?” Put Mr. Harlow.

The managing director was silent. The journalist addressed him sharply.

“Are you going to do nothing? Are you not even going to attempt anything? Surely something — something can be done! Are you made of stone? Or don’t you care? Think — think of those unfortunate people! Ah, it is easy to see you are not one of them!”

“My wife and daughter are in the doomed train,” Mr. Glencoe replied, in a strangled voice.

The reporter bowed his head.

“Forgive me, sir,” he said, after a moment, speaking now in a gentler voice. “But can nothing be done? Can’t someone go down into the tunnel?”

“The shaft indicator shows the water to be less than four miles from the mouth,” replied Mr. Morton. “It would take an hour and a half to walk it; and in a quarter of an hour all will be over. Besides, even if there was time, the chlorine would not allow of our reaching them.”

“Is it the electricity that produces the chlorine?”

“Yes.”

“Well, switch off the current.”

“How is one to decide!” Burst out the managing director, in agonized tones. “If we don’t switch out, every soul will be asphyxiated; if we do, we destroy the train’s last chance of salvation.”

A heavy silence fell upon the little knot of men. There was nothing to be done. The situation was beyond their control. Unable to bear the tension one by one they rose and silently left the power-house, making a melancholy little procession in the direction of the tunnel-mouth.

The chlorine was now belching out in huge greenish volumes, driving back the mob. Surely no one could exist down there in such an atmosphere!

“Suppose the passengers have left the train?” Said someone.

“Perhaps they may yet escape on foot,” suggested the reporter.

“Do you believe that possible?” Asked