‘You have a firearm?’ I demanded, my breath catching. He regarded me with supreme disdain. ‘Sir,’ I hurriedly tagged on.

‘Of course I have a firearm, Mr Linton. Do you think I would go into a situation such as this without being prepared?’

‘But why didn’t you use it on the soldiers before?’

‘Because they had long-range weapons and could have shot me long before I could have returned the favour. You don't bring a rifle on an infiltration. It is cumbersome and slow to load. This,’ he patted the weapon hidden behind his hand, ‘is a Colt Paterson improved model prototype with loading lever, 36 calibre. If our friend there,’ he nodded towards the approaching light, ‘gets close enough, he will be swiftly and terminally perforated.’

‘Meaning, Sir?’

‘Meaning that I will put a hole in his head, Mr Linton.’

I threw a worried glance at the walls of the tunnel, which were still rushing past in a blur, then directed my gaze at the light that was approaching alarmingly fast.

‘I hope we survive long enough to have to worry about fighting him. If we keep going at this pace, we'll probably die when we ram into him. We’re moving too fast and, as you said, this thing has got no brakes.’

‘I doubt it’ll come to a collision. Look.’ And he raised the safety lamp high over his head, pointing to something beside the cart I hadn’t seen before: a set of tracks, running parallel to our own.

‘Why have two sets of rails in a mine?’ The confusion in my voice was evident.

‘One for sending up the salt, one for sending down empty carts again. It makes sense.’

‘Well… I suppose you’re right. And you think he’s on the other set of tracks?’

‘Yes. But…’

‘But what, Sir?’

‘But be ready to jump, just in case I’m wrong.’

How very comforting.

As we raced closer, I could see that indeed he was not on another set of tracks. But there was no need for me to jump, either. Long before we reached the other mining cart, the tracks flattened out. We began to slow down, rolling along the track at a leisurely pace. Now we could see that the other mining cart hadn’t, in fact, been moving towards us - it had only seemed that way because we had been catching up so fast. It was, in fact, moving in the same direction as we, only at a considerably slower pace. A single, rather fat man, whose red uniform and bushy white beard made him look distinctly harmless, was gripping the handle of the draisine. As we came nearer, he raised his hand.

Mr Ambrose raised a hand, too - the one with his gun in it.

I noticed just in time to grab it and push it down again.

‘No!’ I hissed.

He gave me a don’t-interrupt-my-important-business look, which I completely ignored. I clung to his arm tenaciously. ‘Why not, Mr Linton?’

‘Because he hasn't got a gun in his hand, Sir!’

‘He might be going for one, Mr Linton.’

‘Then wait until he does, Sir. You can’t shoot an unarmed man!’

‘That, Mr Linton, is usually the wiser and more effective policy.’

‘Ahoy there,’ the man called, waving genially in our direction. ‘Caught up to me and my little ship on wheels, have you? Well, I ain’t the fastest, I got to admit that.’

‘See? He didn’t want to shoot! He just wanted to wave at us.’

‘For now, Mr Linton.’

Suddenly, the old soldier let go of the end of the see-saw with which he had been pushing along his cart and jumped off.

‘I’m going to take a little rest and have my supper,’ he announced, appearing perfectly content to let the draisine stand where it was. ‘Want to join me?’

I looked at Mr Ambrose.

‘Don’t even think about saying yes, Mr Linton,’ he hissed. ‘We’re being chased by a whole army of soldiers! We don't have time for supper!’

‘I wasn’t going to say yes, Sir,’ I snapped back, miffed. ‘I was going to ask how we'll get past him without arousing suspicion! He’s blocking the way!’

‘I had noticed as much, Mr Linton. Do you still object to my shooting him?’

‘Yes!’

Mr Ambrose gnashed his teeth in silence, and didn’t answer. It was obvious that of all the dangers that we could encounter on our wild chase for survival, he hadn’t factored in a jolly old fellow asking us to stop for supper. Well, neither had I, to be perfectly honest. You just didn’t reckon with those kinds of things when you were hunted by a horde of evil villains. Everybody was supposed to be chasing after you in a panic, not cheerfully unpacking sausages and a bottle of ale.

The white-bearded fellow pulled out a second bottle from the sack slung over his back and held it out to us. We were only a few yards away from him now, and our draisine slowly came to a halt.

‘Want to try it? It’s a damn fine brew, if I do say so myself. The name’s Ben, by the way.’

‘No!’ Mr Ambrose bit out, jumping off the draisine and striding towards the old man.

‘I assure you, it is. My mother picked it out. Father was never the creative one, so she picked all our names. Ben for me, and Tom and Elsie for my-’

‘I meant,’ Mr Ambrose said, enunciating each arctic syllable, ‘no thank you, I do not wish to partake of your alcoholic drink. And neither does my friend. Will you be so kind as to move your mine cart out of the way, so we can continue? We have schedule to keep.’

‘Oh, today’s youth!’ Old Ben sighed and took a large swig of ale. ‘Always in a hurry, always in a hurry. You got to take a breath, youngsters, and learn how to relax. All this panicking will kill you before you get old, you know.’

‘Actually,’ I said, throwing an anxious glance over my shoulder, ‘we’re trying to avoid getting killed before we’re old.’

Old Ben didn’t seem to hear that. He was busy carving up a sausage, holding one slice out to Mr Ambrose, who looked down at it as if it were a rotten rat’s carcass.

‘I really must insist, Sir, that you-’ he began.

‘There they are!’

The shout cut him off abruptly and made us all look back up the hill, from where we had come. There was a yelp from old Ben, who had probably cut his finger instead of the sausage. But I didn’t pay attention, nor did Mr Ambrose. We only had eyes for the draisine with all three soldiers on board, racing downhill at a dangerous tempo.

Dangerous for them, and for us.

Without wasting another word, Mr Ambrose stepped up beside old Ben’s draisine and heaved. With a strangled groan, half from his throat, half from the protesting metal and wood, the vehicle keeled over, and everything that had been inside toppled onto the tunnel floor.

‘Hey!’ Old Ben rose from his sitting position, waving his sausage around threateningly. ‘Now, look here young fellow, you can’t just…’

I didn’t hear any more. Mr Ambrose came running towards me. He jumped onto our draisine and uttered a single, decisive word: ‘Move!’

Knowing all too well what he meant, I jumped on, gripped one end of the see-saw, and pushed. We shot forward, past old Ben and his bloody sausage, towards… towards what? Freedom? Escape?

‘Get them! Get them!’

A shot whistled over my head, and I ducked, my heart hammering faster.

Well, at least we were rushing away from the heavily armed hunting party, that much was sure. The draisine tilted, and off we went down another decline.

‘Hands off the see-saw!’ Mr Ambrose commanded. ‘Get down and stay out of sight!’

He didn’t follow his own advice. Instead, he knelt down right behind the mine cart container and laid the barrel of his gun on top of the metal, narrowing his eyes. I was beside him in a flash.

‘What are you doing, Sir?’ I demanded.

‘I thought I told you to stay out of sight, Mr Linton.’

I cupped one hand behind an ear in a mock gesture. ‘Excuse me? The wind is so loud I hardly understand what you are saying. You want me to stay by your side?’

‘Out of sight, Mr Linton. Out - of - sight!’

‘By your side it is, then, Sir.’

Another shot whistled over our heads. Mr Ambrose didn’t move an inch. Only the barrel of his gun made a minuscule movement, going half an inch upwards. He didn’t look at me.

‘You, Mr Linton, are the most irritating personage I have ever encountered in my life. If you must risk getting shot, do it quietly. I am trying to concentrate.’

‘What are you doing, Sir?’

‘I mentioned quietude just now.’

‘I’ll be quiet if you tell me what you are doing.’

‘I am trying to shoot those inconsiderate gentlemen behind us.’

‘But I thought you said they were too far away to be hit with a revolver.’

Suddenly, an ear-splitting explosion jarred my skull. It threw me backwards so hard I smashed painfully into the wood of the draisine’s floor. If the other gunshots had been loud, this was beyond loud - because it came from right beside me. A flash of light flared up at the mouth of Mr Ambrose’s revolver, and from somewhere up the tunnel I heard a roar, mingled with curses.

Mr Ambrose turned to me, his sea-coloured eyes glinting in the gloom.

‘They were before,’ he said. ‘No longer. They’re catching up. Stay down!’

For once, I could find no words to reply. I didn’t know much about shooting, but I knew enough to guess that this had been one hell of a shot. A much better one than any city financier should be capable of. But then, I had already known that Mr Ambrose was more than that. Much more.

Two gunshots answered him out of the darkness. They slammed into the tunnel wall not far above our heads, and at the same moment, I saw grim satisfaction flashing in Mr Ambrose’s eyes.

‘Why do you look so content?’ I groaned. ‘They nearly hit us!’

‘Yes.’ With a soft click, he rotated the cylinder of his revolver. The next bullet was in place. ‘But only twice. The third man wasn’t shooting.’

The meaning of his words came to me in a rush - the man had to be gravely wounded - or dead. For a long moment, I wondered if that should bother me. It probably should. I knew that Ella would be weeping or screaming in terror in my place. But all I felt was… excitement.

‘Can you teach me to shoot like that?’

Mr Ambrose’s hand, resting on the wall of the metal container again, jerked, and his next shot flew wide of the mark.

‘What?’ he hissed.

‘Can you teach me to shoot? I’d like to learn.’

A shot hit the metal wall of the draisine, which reverberated like a church bell. Mr Ambrose ducked, as a second shot raced over his head.

‘You cannot be serious!’ he hissed.

‘Of course I am, Sir. Wouldn’t it be useful to have some more firepower right now?’

‘But you… you are a…’

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing, Mr Linton.’

My eyes sparked.

‘You were about to admit that I am female!’

‘Nothing of the kind, Mr Linton.’

‘Stop with the Mister already! I am a girl! And girls could use guns just as well as men, if somebody took the trouble to teach them.’

Another shot hit the draisine. And another.

‘This is hardly the right time to discuss gender politics, Mr Linton.’ Mr Ambrose glared at me with a cold intensity that would have sent a pack of lions running for the hills. I didn’t back down an inch.

‘Indeed? And why not, Sir?’

‘Because,’ he said in a deliberate voice, ‘we are about to reach the end of the tunnel. And when we do, we need to run.’

My head whirled around - and light stung my eyes.

He was right! I had been so focused on him and the men who were after us that I hadn’t noticed how the tunnel around us had become steadily brighter and brighter. It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. When they had, I could make out a patch of bright blue. Sky? No, it glittered. The sea! The Mediterranean. Dear God, the tunnel didn’t open onto the sea, did it? I had a brief flash of Mr Ambrose and me plunging three hundred feet to our deaths, to provide a meal for the lobsters of the island, eager to take revenge on humans for the massacre the cooks of France had committed among their people. Not a jolly thought. Especially since I hadn’t eaten a single lobster in my life.

Suddenly, though, there was brown and green mixed in with the blue. I caught the blurred forms of bushes and grass. Grass didn’t grow on the Mediterranean. Huzzah!

Behind me, another shot from Mr Ambrose’s revolver ripped the air apart. Quickly, I pressed my hands to my ears. My head was beginning to hurt.

‘Why don't you take your own advice, Sir, and do that more quietly?’

‘I am afraid nobody has yet invented a noiseless gun, Mr Linton.’

‘How disappointing!’

He didn’t even glance at me, which, under the circumstances, I suppose I could understand. His eyes were firmly trained on our pursuers. ‘Back to the matter at hand, Mr Linton. Do you see the exit?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it far ahead?’

‘No, I don't think so.’ I growled. ‘These aren’t the best circumstances to judge distances, though. I don't have a yardstick, and I’ve never sat on a draisine racing downhill in a mining tunnel with shooting maniacs right behind me, before.’

‘You don't say. What do you see outside?’

‘Why don't you look yourself, Sir?’

‘There’s this small matter of me trying to shoot our pursuers before they shoot us; it is distracting me slightly. Now - what do you see?’

I squinted in the direction of the opening again. The light outside was still so bright in comparison with the tunnel’s gloom that I could hardly make out anything.

‘Some bushes, I think. Grass.’

‘Good. As soon as we leave the tunnel, we are going to throw ourselves into those bushes.’

‘To disrupt the nests of innocent nightingales, Sir?’

‘To cushion our fall, Mr Linton. Cover your face with your arms so your eyes won’t be stabbed by a branch. And… be careful.’

I had just opened my mouth for a witty comeback, but closed it again. Had I heard right? Mr Rikkard Ambrose had just wasted valuable time and breath telling me to be careful? Not only that, but he had sounded genuinely concerned. Could it be that he…?

Another gunshot sheared through my half-finished thought. Hurriedly, I turned my gaze from Mr Ambrose to the approaching exit. I had to keep an eye on it. He was guarding our backs, making sure those sons of bachelors didn’t get us. I had to do my part.

‘We’re getting close,’ I announced. Sweat had started to bead on my forehead again, although the air in the tunnel was still icy, and I was just sitting, doing nothing, only watching. ‘On the count of three we have to jump.’

He gave a grunt, and fired again. I took a deep breath.

‘One,’ I called.

Two more shots burst from his revolver, and the enemy answered.

‘Two.’

He slowly pulled back his revolver and crouched lower, preparing to jump.

‘Um… two and a half.’

‘What? Mr Linton, what is that supposed to mean?’

‘I misjudged the distance, all right? Two and three quarters!’

‘Your version of a countdown is not very reliable, Mr Linton!’

‘Why? I said on the count of three, and on the count of three it'll be. Two and four fifths!’

‘Mr Linton…!’

‘Three!’

I snatched his arm and hurled myself sideways, into free air.