His first call was at the near-by hospital, to where the unfortunate Fayre had been taken, and the news he received was encouraging. The doctors thought that, with any kind of luck, they would not only save the man’s life, but also save him from any serious mutilation. “He may lose a finger or two, and he’s had a most amazing escape,” said the house surgeon. “I can’t understand why he wasn’t blown to pieces.” “What I can’t understand,” said Elk emphatically, “is why _I_ wasn’t blown to pieces.” The surgeon nodded. “These high explosives play curious tricks,” said the surgeon. “I understand that the force of the explosion blew off the door of the safe, and yet this paper, which must also have been within range, is scarcely singed.” He took a square of paper out of his pocket; the edges were blackened; one corner had been burnt off. “I found this in his clothing. It must have been driven there when the bomb detonated,” said the surgeon. Elk smoothed out the paper and read: “_With the compliments of Number Seven._” Carefully he folded the paper. “I’ll take this,” he said, and put it tenderly away in the interior of his spectacle case. “Do you believe in hunches, doctor?” “Do you mean premonitions?” smiled the surgeon. “To an extent I do.” Elk nodded. “I have a hunch that I’m going to meet Number Seven—very shortly,” he said. CHAPTER XXVI PROMOTION FOR BALDER A WEEK had passed, and the explosion at headquarters was ancient history. The injured detective was making fair progress toward recovery, and in some respects the situation was stagnant. Elk apparently accepted failure as an inevitability, and seemed, even to his greatest admirer, to be hypnotized into a fatalistic acceptance of the situation. His attitude was a little deceptive. On the sixth day following the explosion, headquarters made a raid upon the cloak-rooms, and again, as Elk had expected, produced from every single terminus parcels office, a brand-new bag with exactly the same equipment as the others had had, except that the Paddington find differed from none of its fellows. The bags were opened by an Inspector of Explosives, after very careful preliminary tests; but they contained nothing more deadly than the Belgian pistols and the self-same passports, this time made out in the name of “Clarence Fielding.” “These fellows are certainly thorough,” said Elk with reluctant admiration, surveying his haul. “Are you keeping the bags in your office?” asked Dick, but Elk shook his melancholy head. “I think not,” said he. He had had the bags immediately emptied, their contents sent to the Research Department; the bags themselves were now stripped of leather and steel frames, for they had been scientifically sliced, inch by inch.