"I don't know how to thank you, sir, or what to say," said Stephen Trimble, utterly confounded.
"There are no thanks due; on the contrary, I owe you a small matter of five thousand dollars—perhaps more—for it seems you have not signed this paper, and perhaps may not be willing to sell your invention for so small a sum."
As he spoke, the confidential clerk tapped at the door and remarked, "Dr. Carver, sir, of —— Hospital, says you telegraphed to him from Washington to meet you here."
Instantly Stephen Trimble saw that Mr. Armstrong had forgotten his existence; his entire expression changed from kindly benevolence to intense eagerness and anxiety.
"What has he got to worry about, I wonder!" thought the inventor, as he gave place to the physician, and descended the stairs. Force of habit led his steps toward Rickett's Court, but he walked like a different man, and the workman who had seen his cringing, crouching manner as he slouched out of the court that morning, did not recognize the man who entered with buoyant, determined step. The change had begun when he left the door of the Home of the Elder Brother. There his faith in his kind had been restored. Had the good fortune of the afternoon befallen him before that experience he could not have believed it, or the stupendous change would have driven him insane. But it had come upon him, mercifully, by degrees, and he was rapturously happy, and clearer in mind than he had been for months. It was as if a great and crushing weight had been lifted from heart and brain. Suddenly, as he crossed the threshold, he remembered the infernal-machine. The anarchists would probably use it that night, and Alexander Armstrong, his benefactor, was doomed. He wondered how he could ever have been so mad as to aid them. There was only one thing to be done: he must undo his work, render the contrivance harmless, and save his friend. He knocked at the door; there was no answer; the men were probably out. He tried to open it, but it was locked. He could easily have picked the lock, but people were coming and going. The new fire-escape suggested itself to his mind, and he decided to go to his room and, as it was already dark, descend by it to the workroom. This resolution was quickly accomplished. He lighted a candle and was just reaching toward the machine, when the door opened and the anarchists entered.
"What are you doing? I thought you had finished your work," said his former employer.
"No, I have not finished," replied Stephen Trimble, nervously taking up a tool and beginning to remove a screw.
"You are tampering with the machine; put it down!" and the man seized it angrily.
"Let go!" shouted Stephen Trimble, "you touch it at your peril; the button is under your hand!"
The warning came too late—there was a blinding flash, then a crash as though the heavens had fallen; then blackness and silence.