"A bomb," Staunton remarked calmly. "Listen!"
He leaned a little forward in his chair, his pen still in his hand, his attitude one of strained and nervous attention. By degrees the tension in his face relaxed.
He bent once more over his work. I looked at the man by my side in bewilderment.
"The engine! The machinery is not damaged!" was the prompt reply.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead. The silence in the room seemed almost unnatural, and behind it we could hear the dull, monotonous roar of the machinery, still doing its work. Once more I turned to the window, and as I did so I heard the sullen murmur of voices. A little way down the street a solid body of mounted police were forcing back the people.
I made my way back to the other room, almost knocked down in the passage by a man, half-dressed, tearing along with a bundle of wet proofs in his hand. Adèle was standing by the wrecked window-frame--there were no more windows anywhere in the building--and she turned to me with a little cry.
I saw the line of fire and the policemen's saddles emptying fast. The people were closing round the building. Guest stood frowning by our side.
"This is what comes," he said, "of making London the asylum for all the foreign scum of the earth. How goes it, Courage?"
"Staunton is still writing, and the machinery is untouched."
"For how long, I wonder," he muttered. "The police are going over like ninepins."
I looked below longingly, for my blood was up. It was no ordinary mob this. They were beginning to fire in volleys now, and leaders were springing up. As far as we could see there was a panorama of white faces. It was easy to understand what had happened. We had been followed, and our purpose guessed. Tomorrow's edition of the _Daily Oracle_ was never meant to appear!
"The place will be at their mercy in another few minutes," Guest said gloomily. "Twenty-four hours ago who would have dared to predict a riot like this, in London of all places? Not all the police in Scotland Yard would be of any avail against this mob."
"They may stop the paper," I said; "but Staunton's word--and these events--should go for something with Polloch."
Guest looked at me and away out of the window. Adèle was behind us, and out of hearing.