But the inspector was telephoning for my electric. Then he went into the adjoining room, where he commanded a view of the entrance. Silence between Joe and me until he returned. “The electric is coming down the street,” said he.
I rose. “Good,” said I. “I’m ready.”
“Wait until the other police get here,” advised Crawford.
“If the mob is in the temper you describe,” said I, “the less that’s done to irritate it, the better. I must go out as if I hadn’t a suspicion of danger.”
The inspector eyed me with an expression that was highly flattering to my vanity.
“I’ll go with you,” said Joe, starting up from his stupor.
“No,” I replied. “You and the other fellows can take the underground route, if it’s necessary.”
“It won’t be necessary,” put in the inspector. “As soon as I’m rid of you and have my additional force, I’ll clear the streets.” He went to the door. “Wait, Mr. Blacklock, until I’ve had time to get out to my men.”
Perhaps ten seconds after he disappeared, I, without further words, put on my hat, lit a cigar, shook Joe’s wet, trembling hand, left in it my private keys and the memorandum of the combination of my private vault. Then I sallied forth.
I had always had a ravenous appetite for excitement, and I had been in many a tight place; but for the first time in my life I had a sense of equilibrium between my internal energy and the outside situation. As I stepped from my street door and glanced about me, I had no feeling of danger. The whole situation seemed so simple. There stood the electric, just across the narrow stretch of sidewalk; there were the two hundred police, under Crawford’s orders, scattered everywhere through the crowd, and good-naturedly jostling and pushing to create distraction. Without haste, I got into my machine. I calmly met the gaze of those thousands, quiet as so many barrels of gunpowder before the explosion. The chauffeur turned the machine.