"He's turned the trick," growled Dr. Elliot to Hal. "He's a smooth one!" Indeed, the crowd wavered, with that peculiar swaying which presages a general movement. At the south end there was a particularly dense gathering, and there some minor struggle seemed to be in progress. Cries rose: "Let him through."--"What's he want?" "It's Max Veltman," said Hal, catching sight of a wild, strained face. "What is he up to?" The former "Clarion" man squirmed through the front rank and crawled slowly under the ropes. Above the murmur of confused tones, a voice of terror shrilled out: "He's got a bomb." The mass surged back from the spot. Veltman, moving forward upon the unprotected south end of the press, was fumbling at his pocket. "I'll fix your free and enlightened press," he screamed. Dr. Elliot turned on Hal with an imperative question. "Is it true, do you think? Will he do it? Quick!" "Crazy," said Hal. "God forgive me!" prayed the ex-navy man as his arm whipped up. There were two quick reports. At the second, Veltman stopped, half turned, threw his arms widely outward, and vanished in a blinding glare, accompanied by a gigantic _snap!_ as if a mountain of rock had been riven in twain. To Hal it seemed that the universe had disintegrated in that concussion. Blackness surrounded him. He was on the floor, half crouching, and, to his surprise, unhurt. Groping his way to the window he leaned out above an appalling silence. It endured only a moment. Then rose the terrible clamor of a mob in panic-stricken flight, above an insistent undertone of groans, sobs, and prayers. "I had to kill him," muttered Dr. Elliot's shaking voice at Hal's ear. "There was just the one chance before he could throw his bomb." Every light in the building had gone out. Guiding himself by the light of matches, Hal hurried across to his den. He heard Esme's voice before he could make her out, standing near the door. "Is any one hurt?" Hal breathed a great sigh. "You're all right, then! We don't know how bad it is." "An explosion?" "Veltman threw a bomb. He's killed." "Boy-ee!" called Dr. Surtaine. "Here, Dad. You're safe?" "Yes." "Thank God! Careful with that match! The place is strewn with papers." Men from below came hurrying in with candles, which are part of every newspaper's emergency equipment. They reported no serious injuries to the staff or the equipment. Although the plate-glass window had been shattered into a million fragments and the inner fortification toppled over, the precious press had miraculously escaped injury. But in a strewn circle, outside, lay rent corpses, and the wounded pitifully striving to crawl from that shambles.