After a time he happened on Pink Denslow, wandering alone on the outskirts of the crowd.
“Just about kill the governor, this,” said Pink, heavily. “Don't suppose the watchmen got out, either. Not that they'd care,” he added, savagely.
“How about the vaults? I suppose they are fireproof?”
“Yes. Do you realize that every record we've got has gone? D'you suppose those fellows knew about them?”
Willy Cameron had been asking himself the same question.
“Trouble is,” Pink went on, “you don't know who to trust. They're not all foreigners. Let's get away from here; it makes me sick.”
They wandered through the night together, almost unconsciously in the direction of the City Club, but within a block of it they realized that something was wrong. A hospital ambulance dashed by, its gong ringing wildly, and a fire engine, not pumping, stood at the curb.
“Come on,” Pink said suddenly. “There were two explosions. It's just possible—”
The club was more sinister than the burning bank; it was a mass of grim wreckage, black and gaping, with now and then the sound of settling masonry, and already dotted with the moving flash-lights of men who searched.
To Pink this catastrophe was infinitely greater than that of the bank. Men he knew had lived there. There were old club servants who were like family retainers; one or two employees were ex-service men for whom he had found employment. He stood there, with Willy Cameron's hand on his arm, with a new maturity and a vast suffering in his face.