‘GO TO DEATH; go to death; go to death; go to death. Your wife’s a bride; your wife’s a bride. Go to death; go to death; go to death; go to death. Your wife’s a bride; your wife’s a bride.’
The mad refrain was hammered into Newton Moore’s brain by the clang and roar of the flashing miles. A vivid streak of gold and crimson, enveloped in a cloud of vapor, crashed on over the silver-white metals—the fiery trail that men called the South East European Express.
The voice of the big compound engine spoke thus to Newton Moore. To all practical purposes he was going to his death, and was not his wife a bride still? The most valued and trusted servant of the British Secret Service Fund had kissed his wife once upon the lips, and turned his white face to the East at the bidding of his chief.