At the first sickened glance, Allan decided that he had never seen the man, then a certain familiarity struck through to his consciousness. “Why, it’s Rafe Bassett!” he cried. “Rafe Bassett!” echoed a voice, and Allan turned to find that Stanley had broken a way through the crowd. “Well, that’s justice for you!” “Justice?” echoed Allan. “It was him did all that,” said Stanley, with a wave of the hand toward the burning cars. “Set fire to them an’ got burned up hisself!” The crowd pressing upon the policemen heard the words and a low angry murmur ran through it, for with that blackened shape before them, the detective’s words sounded particularly heartless. “Men,” cried Stanley, facing them, “this ain’t no guesswork. Rafe Bassett was kicked out of the brotherhood t’-night, an’ decided t’ git even this way. He set that car of oil on fire—_but he was inside the car_—an’ before he could git the door open, this is what happened to him. I pity the poor devil as much as any of you—an’ yet I say ’twas justice.” “He’s right,” nodded a man at the front of the crowd. “He’s right. Let’s have no trouble here, men.” Allan looked down again at the dim and shapeless mass. “Is there an ambulance?” he asked. “Yes,” answered one of the doctors. “Two of them.” “Take him away, then; and see that he is cared for. After all, he’s dead, Stanley.” “An’ a blamed good thing, too,” muttered Stanley, whose stock of sentiment was very small; but he took care that the crowd did not hear the words. After all, there was no use in provoking trouble. “And how about the others?” asked Allan. “What others?” “The men in the freight-house.” “Oh,” answered Stanley, with a grin, “they was more scared than hurt.” Allan drew a quick breath of relief. “But didn’t the bomb wreck the place?” he asked. “Oh, it wrecked it all right; at least this end of it; but by good luck, it blew the end wall out, instead of in, and the roof didn’t fall until everybody had scrambled out. I thought there’d been at least a dozen killed by the way they hollered after the bomb went off, but nobody was hurt beyond some cuts and bruises.” “Well, that was good luck!” said Allan. “That takes the biggest kind of a load off my heart.” “Yes; and the best luck of all,” added Stanley dryly, “is that I caught the man who did it.” “The man who did it?” Allan stopped short in amazement to look at his companion. “Do you mean it, Stanley?” “Mean it? I should say I did. It was the merest luck—I fell right on to him as he was gettin’ away, and when I started to take him back to the freight-house he was scared to death—but he don’t deny it, fer that matter.” “Who was it?” asked Allan. “One of the strikers?” “No,” said Stanley, grinning again. “One of the strike-breakers.” Again Allan stopped to gaze in amazement at his companion. “Hummel,” explained Stanley, his face fairly glowing with satisfaction. “Oh, this has been a great night.” “Where is he now?”