“I do,” I answered fervently.
“Then dare you—dare you, for my sake, Andrew—dare you throw the bomb?” she whispered hoarsely.
Her suggestion startled me. I halted amazed.
“I—I could not—I really could not,” I stammered.
“Ah! it is as I thought—you do not love me,” she said reproachfully. “But it is time I took up my position at the next corner. If I die, it will be because you refused your assistance. Farewell!”
Before I could detain her, she had turned into the Strand, and was lost among the bustling crowd. Hurrying, I overtook her before she gained the corner of Burleigh Street.
“I have changed my mind, Sonia,” I said. “Give it to me; I will act in your stead. Fly to a place of safety, and I will meet you in Warsaw on the day appointed.”
From beneath her shawl she carefully handed me the bomb. It was heavy, weighing fully eight pounds. Slipping it into the capacious pocket of the covert coat I was wearing, I stood at the street corner. Sonia refused to leave, declaring that she would remain to witness the death of the son of the Autocrat.
Trembling and breathless, I stood dreading the fatal moment, knowing that my pocket contained sufficient picric acid to wreck the whole street.
Seconds seemed hours.