of those about him. They were thoughts of friendly curiosity, of
pity for the exiles; on the part of the policemen who had
hastened from a cross street, of pride at their temporary
responsibility; on the part of the coachman of the court
carriage, of speculation as to the possible amount of his
Majesty's tip. The thoughts were as harmless and protecting as
the warm sunshine.

And then, suddenly and harshly, like the stroke of a fire bell at
midnight, the harmonious chorus of gentle, hospitable thoughts
was shattered by one that was discordant, evil, menacing. It was
the thought of a man with a brain diseased; and its purpose was
murder.

"When they appear at the doorway," spoke the brain of the maniac,
"I shall lift the bomb from my pocket. I shall raise it above my
head. I shall crash it against the stone steps. It will hurl them
and all of these people into eternity and me with them. But I
shall LIVE--a martyr to the Cause. And the Cause will flourish!"

Through the unsuspecting crowd, like a football player diving for
a tackle, Philip hurled himself upon a little dark man standing
close to the open door of the court carriage. From the rear
Philip seized him around the waist and locked his arms behind
him, elbow to elbow. Philip's face, appearing over the man's
shoulder, stared straight into that of the policeman.

"He has a bomb in his right-hand pocket!" yelled Philip. "I can
hold him while you take it! But, for Heaven's sake, don't drop
it!" Philip turned upon the crowd. "Run! all of you!" he shouted.