They were feeling their way across the park in the direction of the Mall. "It's like a shuddering romance that I read a little time since. But I must know something about it before I go to bed. Let's try St. James's Street--if there's any St. James's Street left." "All right," Lord Barcombe agreed, "I hope the clubs are safe. Is it wise to strike a match with all this gas reeking in the air?" "Anything's better than the gas," Sir George said tersely. The vesta flared out in a narrow, purple circle. Beyond it was a glimpse of a seat with two or three people huddled on it. They were outcasts and companions in the grip of misfortune, but they were all awake now. "Can any of you say what's happened?" Lord Barcombe asked. "The world's come to an end, sir, I believe," was the broken reply. "You may say what you like, but it was a tremendous explosion. I saw a light like all the world ablaze over to the north, and then all the lights went out, and I've been waiting for the last trump to sound ever since." "Then you didn't investigate?" Lord Barcombe asked. "Not me, sir. I seem to have struck a bit of solid earth where I am. And then it rained stones and pieces of brick and vestiges of creation. There's the half of a boiler close to you that dropped out of the sky. You stay where you are, sir." But the two young men pushed on. They reached what appeared to be St. James's Street at length, but only by stumbling and climbing over heaps of _débris_. The roadway was one mass of broken masonry. The fronts of some of the clubs had been stripped off as if a titanic knife had sliced them. It was like looking into one of the upholsterers' smart shops, where they display rooms completely furnished. There were gaps here and there where houses had collapsed altogether. Seeing that the road had ceased to exist, it seemed impossible that an earthquake could have done this thing. A great light flickered and roared a little way down the road. At an angle a gas main was tilted up like the spout of a teapot, upheaved and snapped from its twin pipes. This had caught fire in some way, so that for a hundred yards or so each way the thoroughfare was illuminated by a huge flare lamp. It was a thrilling sight focussed in that blue glare. It looked as if London had been utterly destroyed by a siege--as if thousands of well-aimed shells had exploded. Houses looked like tattered banners of brick and mortar. Heavy articles of furniture had been hurled into the street; on the other hand, little gimcrack ornaments still stood on tiny brackets. A scared-looking policeman came staggering along. "My man," Lord Barcombe cried, "what has happened?" The officer pulled himself together and touched his helmet. "It's dreadful, sir," he sobbed. "There has been an accident in the tubes; and they have been blown all to pieces." III.