"There—there!" cried a policeman near him: "it is all over with the serjeant and my poor comrades!"
Immediately after the explosion, and while Markham and the officer were yet speaking, a bright column of fire shot up into the air:—millions and millions of sparks, glistening vividly, showered down upon the scene of havoc;—for a moment—a single moment—the very heavens seemed on fire;—then all was black—and silent—and doubly sombre.
The den of the assassins had ceased to exist: it had been destroyed by gunpowder.
The blackened remains and dismembered relics of mortality were discovered on the following morning amongst the ruins, or in the immediate neighbourhood;—but it was impossible to ascertain how many persons had perished on this dread occasion.
CHAPTER LXVII.
SCENES IN FASHIONABLE LIFE.
TWO months elapsed from the date of the preceding event.
It was now the commencement of March; and bleak winds had succeeded the hoary snows of winter.
The scene changes to the house of Sir Rupert Harborough, in Tavistock Square.
It was about one o'clock in the afternoon. The baronet was pacing the drawing-room with uneven steps, while Lady Cecilia lounged upon the sofa, turning over the pages of a new novel.
"Now this is most provoking, Cecilia," exclaimed the baronet: "I never was so much in want of money in my life; and you refuse to adopt the only means which——"