His secretary was nervously awaiting him. Nor could he restrain his impatience. Heathcote was in the hall when Ruxton's key turned in the lock. The young man held a long telegram in his hand and flourished it towards his employer the moment the door closed.
"It's from Sir Andrew," he said. "There's trouble—trouble at Dorby."
Ruxton snatched at the ominous paper and his eyes eagerly sought the boldly-written message.
"Explosion here at 6 A. M. Drawing offices completely wrecked. Serious fire. Certain departments damaged and had narrow escape complete destruction.—Farlow."
It was the second blow in a few hours. Ruxton was hit hard. He read into the message all the ominous facts which had been left unwritten.
But in a moment he had been roused out of himself. The loss of the woman he loved had left him stunned in a curious degree. He had been attacked thereby through the sensitive organism which controlled all that belonged to the emotional side of the human heart. A terrible weight of depression had overwhelmed him for the moment. Now it was different. Here was a tangible attack. Here was something that left his heart untouched, but roused instead all the human fighting instinct which had lain dormant within him. There was no deadening apathy, there was no feeling of helplessness. He was alive, alert, and full of battle. So he prepared for a second night in succession to be spent on the railway.
"I must go to Dorby to-night," he said briefly. Then he added, as he passed up-stairs to his library: "Get on to Scotland Yard and put me through."