Terry moved over to the window and peered out over their shoulders, but they could see nothing. "Not an air-raid, surely? Don't say I've slept all through the Great War, daddy," he murmured, but there was not much jesting in his manner. They listened. Windows were being flung open and people were coming out into the streets. The shouting had come nearer--men were spreading the news to everyone within range of voices, but as yet it was impossible to make out what was being yelled. Until, gradually, to the three of them, came a glimmer of comprehension. The Triangle. That ruthless organisation had been abroad again that night, spreading death and disaster in some terrific fashion at which for the nonce they could only guess. On the pavement outside the two detectives who guarded the house were staring into the darkness, speculating about the cause of the disturbance. "What was it?" Terry called through the window, and one of them looked up and shook his head. "Can't say, sir. The Triangle threatened to blow up some places, and Piccadilly Circus was first on the list--the noise seemed to come from that direction, but I couldn't swear to it." Storm's flat was near Piccadilly. A little pang ripped into Susan's heart, and she caught her breath. But it wasn't likely that he'd be in the damage, she reassured herself doubtfully. The Albany was some way from Piccadilly Circus, and London was so big that, even if he were out that night, it was umpteen thousand to one against his having been near the explosion. And, anyhow, it wasn't certain that Piccadilly Circus had been mined, although logic was inclined to support that hypothesis.... Still they listened, and while they did so a handful of men and women ran past, laughing, dashing off to "see the fun." And then, through the night air, came an ominous silence, a murmuring stillness which was perplexing until they realised that it was caused by a sudden stoppage of all the traffic running on the near south and east. And through that hush came a new sound, approaching rapidly. It increased, until it could be recognised as the splutter of a high-powered car tearing through the streets towards them. As it sped nearer, it could all but be identified, and the suspicion it roused made Susan clutch the window sill in unaccountable terror. That loud, rising and falling snort and purr was the voice of a Hirondel--Storm's car. Was Storm himself driving? The fear that It might be carrying his maimed or lifeless body filled her with a shuddering dread. _Was_ it the Hirondel? The car broke into sight now, rocking down the road with its twin headlights ablaze. It drew almost abreast of them, and then swerved across the road and jerked to a standstill before the door with all its brakes screaming in protest at the rough handling. One of the detectives ran to open the door, and Susan watched, striving not to flinch, to see who should descend.