"This'll be the end of both of us," he said. "What in hell's happened to those dear friends outside?" He did not say "dear friends." Storm shrugged. A bag had been produced, and the three men in the centre of the room were gathering up the jewels and packing them quickly and carefully away. One by one they emptied the cases, and the bag grew heavy and bulging. They were working on the last case when an interruption occurred. One of the guards from the street came to the entrance. The whole thing was perfectly planned. The three unarmed men hardly looked up from their task. One of those who held bombs turned with one arm threateningly drawn back as the detective, swiftly comprehending the scene, made a swift movement of his right hand. The other two continued to menace the crowd huddled together at the far end of the room. "Don't shoot!" rapped Storm, and the man's hand fell to his side. He was passed back to his comrades behind the crowd of frightened men and women, and the despoiling of the last case went on without a break. The Triangle had allowed for all contingencies, and every counter-move had been designed and rehearsed to perfection, so that the complete performance should move as cleanly and slickly as an exhibition by a perfectly trained _corps de ballet_. It was all carried out with incredible speed and efficiency. Barely five minutes elapsed between the first intimation of the attack and the collection of every gem in the place in the bag the three operatives carried. In the forefront of the crowd a keen-faced young man was writing swiftly in a notebook. His astounding unconcern stamped him immediately as a member of the only profession which would be detachedly interested in the end of the world. Snooper Brome replaced the pins in the bombs he held, and one of his assistants did the same. The third man still held up his hands with their load of concentrated death. The three who had rifled the cases left first, strolling out one by one and conversing casually of what they had seen. Morini, carrying the bag, paused to deliver a mocking farewell. "We shall meet again, Captain Arden," he said. "In the Old Bailey," brisked Storm cheerfully. "So long, Gat." He had no fear of being attacked then, for obviously the gang would be unwilling to alarm the people outside if it could be avoided. The whole thing was staked on the handicap of the crowd of people who would be involved in the fight if the police made a move. It was the most consummately daring bluff in the history of crime, and, granted police officers who felt responsibility for the safety of the general public, it was a bluff that could not be called.... Now only the last man was left, and he stood like a graven image while the hands of the big clock on the wall over his head moved slowly. A silence had fallen on the crowd, and the only sound was the restless movements of their feet. The reporter was still writing dispassionately.