himself, and sitting with his back to his fellow passenger.

Some unusual noise in the front end of the car caught his ear, and
raising his head, he exclaimed:

"What's that?"

The answer came, not from the front of the car but from behind.

A strong muscular hand was placed on his neck. A brawny arm was thrown
around his chest, and lifted from the chair, he was thrown violently to
the floor of the car.

In a flash he realized his position. With an almost superhuman effort,
he threw Bronson from him, and reaching around felt for his revolver. It
was gone, and thrown to the other end of the car.

Little did the passengers on the train know of the stirring drama which
was being enacted in the car before them. Little did they think as they
leaned back in their comfortable seats, of the terrific struggle which
was then taking place. On one hand it was a struggle for $100,000; on
the other, for reputation, for honor, perhaps for life.

Fotheringham, strong as he vas (for he was large of frame, and muscular)
was no match for his assailant. He struggled manfully, but was hurled
again to the floor, and as he looked up, saw the cold barrel of a 32-
calibre pointed at his head. Bronson's face, distorted with passion and
stern with the fight, glared down at him, as he hissed through his
teeth: