[Illustration: _The Author (dictating)._ "'The room was filled with dynamite, gun-cotton, nitro-glycerine, cans of petrol and other high explosives. A train of powder had been laid and was swiftly burning its way to the heap of combustibles. Clarence, tied to a post, listened to the retreating footsteps of the Huns, a smile of contempt curling his sensitive nostrils.' Clarence is in a tight place, Miss Brown, and I don't know yet how we'll get him out of it. Can you suggest anything?" _Amanuensis (brightly)._ "Why not have peace proclaimed?"]