"What does he mean?" I asked.
"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.
"Jim!" she exclaimed, "Look! Look!"
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!