And that that certainly had some very intimate relation to the Triangle was an assumption which brooked no question. Her head was spinning like a high-pressure dynamo; the glimpse of infinite leagues of the Unknown which her new-found wisdom gave her was appalling. She had a grip on one salient fact, and she was sure that attached to that fact was the thread which, properly trailed, would lead to the centre of the labyrinth. Whose, then, was that momentous Voice? She racked her brain for inspiration; but having obliged so far, memory baulked at that last fence. She realised the difficulty of divorcing voice from all association of appearance and demeanour. Storm might have the various compartments of his reminiscence more efficiently docketed and cross-indexed than hers were--but how could one describe a voice? It seemed hopeless unless one happened to be an expert imitator, and that ability was not among her talents. Still she thought she should get in touch with him: even while he was on his way she might succeed in remembering the owner of the Voice. She had a ludicrous vision of herself seated in the Chief Commissioner's room at New Scotland Yard, her head swathed in ice compresses, what time the heads of the Criminal Investigation Department hovered and tiptoed around her, waiting in anxious silence for a clue to fall from her lips ... She smiled to herself, but the impulse to ring up Storm persisted. Where would he be at that hour? Most probably at his flat, she decided promptly. She was on the point of getting up from her chair to fetch the telephone, when---- BOOM! ... _--oom! ... --oom! ..._ The muffled thunder of a distant explosion came echoing and reëchoing through the ether. And not so very distant either, for the thud of it was louder than anything she had ever heard--it shook the earth and rattled the windows in their frames. She sat up with a jump, and saw that Ann had dropped her work and was staring about in amazement. Even Terry looked up with a surprised expression; and then he leaned heavily on the table. "Concentration!" he breathed reverently. "What absorption! What industry! I hope you're all takin' a lesson from me. I'm goin' to register a Deed Poll changing my name to Rip Van Winkle. When I started this pestilential job it was June, and now they're already lettin' off fireworks and burning the image of Mr. Fawkes. Still, I suppose to anyone of my vast intelligence---- "Shut up!" commanded his wife rudely. "Susan, whatever was it?" "Fireworks, I tell you," said Terry. "This is the Fifth, and they're celebratin' Brock's Benefit." And then, stealing through the open windows, from the east, came the dull roar of a hubbub which swelled with every minute. Came, ever so thin and faint, a horrible, sobbing cry.... The racket grew ... not so very far away they heard shouts, a screaming babel of police whistles, and the patter of running feet...