“Of death?” he echoed.
“Death!” she cried: “death! In that box which you have dragged about London and carried on your defenceless shoulders, sleep, at the trigger’s mercy, the destroying energies of dynamite.”
“My God!” cried Harry.
“Ah!” she continued wildly, “will you flee now? At any moment you may hear the click that sounds the ruin of this building. I was sure M’Guire was wrong; this morning, before day, I flew to Zero; he confirmed my fears; I beheld you, my beloved Harry, fall a victim to my own contrivances. I knew then I loved you—Harry, will you go now? Will you not spare me this unwilling crime?”
Harry remained speechless, his eyes fixed upon the box: at last he turned to her.
“Is it,” he asked hoarsely, “an infernal machine?”
Her lips formed the word “yes“; which her voice refused to utter.
With fearful curiosity, he drew near and bent above the box; in that still chamber, the ticking was distinctly audible; and at the measured sound, the blood flowed back upon his heart.
“For whom?” he asked.