Dr. Elliot turned on Hal with an imperative question.

“Is it true, do you think?  Will he do it?  Quick!”

“Crazy,” said Hal.

“God forgive me!” prayed the ex-navy man as his arm whipped up.

There were two quick reports.  At the second, Veltman stopped, half turned, threw his arms widely outward, and vanished in a blinding glare, accompanied by a gigantic snap! as if a mountain of rock had been riven in twain.

To Hal it seemed that the universe had disintegrated in that concussion.  Blackness surrounded him.  He was on the floor, half crouching, and, to his surprise, unhurt.  Groping his way to the window he leaned out above an appalling silence.  It endured only a moment.  Then rose the terrible clamor of a mob in panic-stricken flight, above an insistent undertone of groans, sobs, and prayers.

“I had to kill him,” muttered Dr. Elliot’s shaking voice at Hal’s ear.  “There was just the one chance before he could throw his bomb.”

Every light in the building had gone out.  Guiding himself by the light of matches, Hal hurried across to his den.  He heard Esme’s voice before he could make her out, standing near the door.  “Is any one hurt?”

Hal breathed a great sigh.  “You’re all right, then!  We don’t know how bad it is.”

“An explosion?”

“Veltman threw a bomb.  He’s killed.”

“Boy-ee!” called Dr. Surtaine.

“Here, Dad.  You’re safe?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God!  Careful with that match!  The place is strewn with papers.”

Men from below came hurrying in with candles, which are part of every newspaper’s emergency equipment.  They reported no serious injuries to the staff or the equipment.  Although the plate-glass window had been shattered into a million fragments and the inner fortification toppled over, the precious press had miraculously escaped injury.  But in a strewn circle, outside, lay rent corpses, and the wounded pitifully striving to crawl from that shambles.

With the steadiness which comes to nerves racked to the point of collapse, Hal made the rounds of the building.  Two men in the pressroom were slightly hurt.  Their fellows would look after them.  Wayne, with his men, was already in the street, combining professional duty with first aid.  The scattered and stricken mob had begun to sift back, only a subdued and curious crowd now.  Then came the ambulances and the belated police, systematizing the work.

Quarter of an hour had passed when Dr. Surtaine, Esme Elliot, her uncle—­much surprised at finding her there—­and Hal stood in the editorial office, hardly able yet to get their bearings.

“I shall give myself up to the authorities,” decided Dr. Elliot.  He was deadly pale, but of unshaken nerve.

“Why?” cried Hal.  “It was no fault of yours.”

“Rules of the game.  Well, young man, you have a paper to get out for to-morrow, though the heavens fall.  Good-night.”