th Akers,
it was roused from its lethargy. A series of bomb outrages shook the
downtown district. The Denslow Bank was the first to go. Willy Cameron,
inspecting a cut lip in his mirror, heard a dull explosion, and ran down
to the street. There he was joined by Joe Wilkinson, in trousers over
his night shirt, and as they looked, a dull red glare showed against
the sky. Joe went back for more clothing, but Willy Cameron ran down the
street. At the first corner he heard a second explosion, further away
and to the east, but apparently no fire followed it. That, he learned
later, was the City Club, founded by Anthony Cardew years before.

The Denslow Bank was burning. The facade had been shattered and from the
interior already poured a steady flow of flame and smoke. He stood among
the crowd, while the engines throbbed and the great fire hose lay
along the streets, and watched the little upper room where the precious
records of the Committee were burning brightly. The front wall gone,
the small office stood open to the world, a bright and shameless thing,
flaunting its nakedness to the crowd below.

He wondered why Providence should so play into the hands of the enemy.

After a time he happened on Pink Denslow, wandering alone on the
outskirts of the crowd.

"Just about kill the governor, this," said Pink, heavily. "Don't suppose
the watchmen got out, either. Not that they'd care," he added, savagely.

"How about the vaults? I suppose they are fireproof?"

"Yes. Do you realize that every record we've got has gone? D'you suppose
those fellows knew about them?"

Willy Cameron had been asking himself the same question.

"Trouble is," Pink went on, "you don't know who to trust. They're not
all foreigners. Let's get away from here; it makes me sick."

They wandered through the night together, almost unconsciously in the
direction of the City Club, but within a block of it they realized that
something was wrong. A hospital ambulance dashed by, its gong ringing
wildly, and a fire engine, not pumping, stood at the curb.

"Come on," Pink said suddenly. "There were two explosions. It's just
possible--"

The club was more sinister than the burning bank; it was a mass of grim
wreckage, black and gaping, with now and then the sound of settling
masonry, and already dotted with the moving flash-lights of men who
searched.

To Pink this catastrophe was infinitely greater than that of the bank.
Men he knew had lived there. The