drew a revolver from his pocket. It struck her that the odour from the rotting banana-pile was becoming almost unendurable.
She followed him blindly, her outstretched fingers keeping in touch with his coat-sleeve. She saw him step in over the railway-tracks that were bridged by the shed. A broken right angle of light, from the lantern within, outlined the huge, loosely fitting door that covered the west end of the black-boarded building. In this huge door a smaller one had at some time been cut; it was through this smaller door that McKinnon led her, cautiously, noiselessly.
The track-motor stood backed almost against the eastern end of the shed, next to the door through which the barefooted soldiers were carrying the heavy boxes. The officer with the lantern still kept his position, just inside this door, placidly smoking his cigarette.
The girl and McKinnon had to stoop low to keep in the shadow of the square-topped, heavy-bodied motor—car. They crouched in under its acetylenes, close to the rust—covered, many-dented circulating coil, as a cartridge-box was lifted into the body of the car by the two bare-footed carriers, with a muffled thump as the weight was released, and then the grating of wood against wood as the box was pushed and twisted and jerked into position. They could
