An ominous snapping came from within. Stanief's strong white fingers fitted themselves to the crack and with a superb effort he twisted the thing in half.
"Ah!" gasped Allard, blinded, as a great cloud of smoke rushed forth.
Stanief drew out the fuse as it reached the end, and flung it into the street.
"Lighted too late," he explained. "Our terrorists are clumsy."
"They meant it for Adrian," he answered. "You were right."
They found each other's hands through the choking fumes; Allard's fingers scorched by the guncotton, Stanief's bruised and bleeding from the force used to open the machine.
As the smoke cleared they looked around, then back at each other. They were alone in a deserted street. Distant cries, increasing tumult, announced the spreading panic. Three blocks away flashed the green-and-gold of the palace guards as they charged to the scene, over pavements littered with fallen garments, the contents of overturned vehicles, and the vehicles themselves. The well-trained horses of the royal carriage had stood still, accustomed to public demonstrations of a different nature but similar violence.
"Really," Allard exclaimed, on the verge of laughter. "Really, monseigneur—"
"There has been some excitement," Stanief assented. "Will you go on to the palace and explain to the Emperor? I am going back to reassure madame."
Their attendants were creeping shamefacedly back to their posts, seeing all was over. The line of soldiers swept down upon the carriage, a very pale officer in command.