They left Blaythwayt in charge of the reserve sergeant and went up to the Commissioner's room. Smethurst was away, but they had not been there five minutes before Bill Kennedy came in for first-hand news of the Piccadilly Circus explosion. Storm left Teal to give the account, and himself went over to the window and sat down on the sill, smoking a cigarette. Storm's face was chiselled out into grim lines, but behind its inscrutability and actuating the leisurely precision of his movements was a hurtling mill of mental concentration. What was the next move to be? He strove to grapple with the problem, but his over-tired brain refused to function with the methodical accuracy he demanded of it. Teal had complained of the curtailment of the hours of slumber, but Storm himself had had little sleep that last week, and mind is not tireless like machinery. Yet he kept on, keying his already taut faculties almost up to snapping pitch, calling up all his reserves of energy, and struggling with their aid to outline a practical plan. Teal had just finished his account when the telephone rang. Storm, who was nearest, took the call. It was the City Commissioner speaking. "You've had a blow-up in Piccadilly Circus, haven't you?" "Oh--er--yes! I believe we have!" said Storm ironically, and the Commissioner snorted in disgust. "Well, we've had a smaller one in Fleet Street. Just one man--blown to crumbs. There's no hope of identifying him. I just thought you might be interested. Sands, a pickpocket belonging to the Walton Street manor, was seen haring away from the scene as if he'd a big scare, so you might put out a call for him." "I will. Fleet Street, I think you said?" "Yes." "Uh-huh. The dead man is John Cardan, editor of the _Daily Record_," said Storm calmly, and hung up the receiver. After what had happened that night, such minor details as solo murders seemed things of no account. Storm had reached the stage where he was beyond the reach of agitation. He gave the Assistant Commissioner a brief account of the conversation, and he was still speaking when the telephone bell shrilled again. This time it was the Thames Police depot on Victoria Embankment. When Storm put down the instrument a queer flush had come into his face. "A body's been taken out of the river," he said slowly. "Head smashed to pulp with an axe. The tailor's tab in the breast pocket, and some papers in the clothes, say that it's Oscar. I guess this is the end of the world!" Storm and Teal went off to view the corpse, and the detective was surprised to see that Storm hailed a taxi in Cannon Row instead of setting out to walk the short distance along the Embankment. Mr. Teal, however, was too well trained to make any demur, and he had just got in when Blaythwayt came rushing up.