Hodgins was just about to enter the building when there came a violent report, followed instantly by a crash and loud cries of alarm. “Great grief!” he gasped. “What has happened? Sounds as if a bomb had gone off. And it came from inside the building, too!” Rushing up the stairs, which were strewn with pieces of plaster that the explosion had torn from the walls, the chief entered the private office of Delancey Gale--or, to be more exact, all that was left of the private office. The room was a total wreck. Its door had been torn from its hinges; the panes of the two windows were completely blown out; the ceiling had come down; great holes had been torn in the plastering of the walls; the office furniture was smashed. And, stretched on the floor, lying so still that Hodgins thought at first that he surely must be dead, was old Delancey Gale, so badly banged up by the explosion that his face was scarcely recognizable. In the hope that there might still be some life left in that inert form, the chief of police grabbed the telephone which stood on the ruin of what had been a fine mahogany desk. Fortunately the instrument was still in working order, and in a few minutes he had the hospital on the wire, and was imploring them to send an ambulance to the _Chronicle_ office with as little delay as possible. When the ambulance surgeon arrived, he announced that there was still a spark of life left in the proprietor of the _Chronicle_, but that it was exceedingly doubtful whether he would survive his injuries. “Anybody else hurt, chief?” the surgeon inquired, as he and his driver placed the wounded man on a stretcher and prepared to take him to the hospital. “It seems not,” Hodgins replied. “A couple of chaps in the reporters’ room got a few scratches, I’m told; but nobody except poor Gale is injured seriously. The whole building was jarred by the explosion, but most of its force seems to have been confined to this room.” “How did it happen?” the surgeon inquired, as he lifted one end of the stretcher and started to carry the unconscious man to the ambulance. “Looks to me like a bomb outrage,” the police official replied, with a scowl. “See that clockwork affair over there on the floor? I reckon it was that contraption which caused the damage. But I ain’t had time to make an investigation. I’ve got my suspicions, though, as to who is responsible for this atrocity.” Just as they were lifting the stretcher into the ambulance, young Gale pushed his way through the crowd which had gathered on the sidewalk. He had gone out on an errand for his father about an hour before the explosion, and the sight of the ambulance and the crowd gathered in front of the _Chronicle_ office was the first intimation he had that anything was wrong. His face was white as he approached Chief Hodgins. “Is the governor dead?” he inquired hoarsely.