"The proof!" he thundered. "This is too serious a matter for buffoonery.
The proof!"
Percy Darrow raised his hand. Through the roar of the maddened city the bell of the Metropolitan tower was beginning its chimes. By the third stroke the uproar had died almost away. The people were standing still, awaiting what might come.
The sweet-toned chimes ceased. There succeeded the pause. Then the great bell began to boom.
One—two—three—four—five—six came its spaced and measured strokes. The last reverberations sank away. Nothing happened. Percy Darrow let his hand fall.
"The proof," he repeated, "is that you are still here."
From the night outside rose a wild shriek of rejoicing, stupendous, overwhelming, passionate. Paige sprang across the room. "Release!" he shouted fairly in Simmons' ear. The spark crashed. And at a dozen places simultaneously bulletins flashed; at a dozen other points placarded balloons arose, on which the search-lights played; so that the people, hesitating in their flight in thankfulness over finding themselves still alive, raised their eyes and read:
Monsieur X is captured. You are safe.
At that a tumult arose, a tumult of rejoicing.
Darrow had sauntered to the window, and was looking out. From the great height of the Atlas Building he could see abroad over much of the city. Here and there, like glowing planets, hung the balloons.
"Clever idea," he observed. "I'm glad you thought of it."