"Very well. Remember what Dr. Albert told us--this explosion must be greater even than the Black Tom. We must see that each bomb accomplishes more than its object--it must be placed in such a way that it will either start fires following the explosion or cause other detonations as a result of its own. For instance, the munitions ships. The explosion of the bomb will cause an explosion in the hold of the ship where guncotton, nitro-glycerin and T.N.T. are stored. Then there are the powder factories on the Jersey side, to say nothing of the chemical works. See that they are all destroyed. Remember always, that America soon is to be at war with Germany, and we must work while there are still no provisions made for the safety of the industries. America must be crippled even before it has a chance to enter this war. So not one of you must fail! Now, go!" The men crowded forth. They hurried down the stairway--into the apparently empty hall beneath. And then---- From doorways, from beneath the stairs, from outside, from everywhere came members of the Secret Service, to leap upon the bomb carriers, to take them by surprise, to carry them off their feet by the suddenness and severity of their attack. One by one they were downed. Then, three men were sent up the stairway by Harrison Grant to capture the old bomb-maker himself and the remainder of his supplies. Here and there about the hall, the fight surged. Harrison Grant suddenly swerved from his attack upon a bomb-planter, as another leaped upon him from the rear, and, clutching his hands tight about the detective's throat, sought to choke the life from him. Grant gagged; his eyes bulged. He struggled to stiffen the cords of his neck against the clutching hands from the rear. But in vain. The world began to grow dark. He wavered--he stumbled--then suddenly felt the hands loosen their grip as there came the cracking sound of a blow. Two arms closed about him. Harrison Grant opened his eyes--to look into those of Dixie Mason. "I got him," was her simple announcement. "Hit him on the head with the butt of my revolver. I was afraid to shoot--you both were so close together." "Good little Dixie!" Grant pressed her hand, then hurried to the fight again. But the fight was over. The bomb-planters had been subdued. Outside there sounded the clanging of a patrol wagon. That afternoon, on the deck of the _Frederik VIII_, Bernstorff and Albert watched in vain for the sight of explosion or of fire. Germany's last great destructive plot against America had failed.