Returning back to town, after a late lunch, Larose went straight to his flat in Sloane Square. He had some private business to attend to and some letters to write, and, besides, he wanted to think over his plans and consider whether he should approach Scotland Yard now and lay the whole matter before them.

Carlyle Mansions was not a very big building and contained less than a score of flats. The needs of those tenants who required help were looked after by a married couple and three maids, who all lived in the basement. The ‘Mansions’ was four stories high, and was served by an automatic lift.

Larose let himself into his suite of rooms, and throwing himself into an armchair, gave himself up to his thoughts. He always felt at rest and peaceful there, and very seldom entertained any visitors. Only a few of his most intimate friends were aware he had any flat at all in town, and, in consequence, he was seldom troubled by callers.

So he was a little bit surprised now, when he had been there about ten minutes, to hear a ring at the bell on his door.

Opening the door at once, he saw two respectable-looking men in workmen’s overalls standing outside. Both of them were carrying tool-bags.

“Come to look at the bath taps, sir,” said the taller of them, in a pleasant drawling voice with a faint Irish accent. “It’ll be Mr. Harvey, isn’t it?”

“No, you’ve made a mistake,” began Larose, “this is not ——”

But he got no farther, for the tall man with a lightning movement had reached out and struck him violently upon the chest. Thrown off his balance, he staggered back in an attempt to keep upright, but the man was upon him like a tiger and tripped him heavily to the ground. Then, half stunned by the violence of his fall, he could put up no effective resistance against the two of them and was speedily tied hand and foot and a broad length of cloth wound round the lower part of his face to muffle any cries.

“If you call out,” warned the tall man sternly, and speaking in quite educated tones. “I’ll have to stun you.” He shook his head. “But I don’t want to, for it’s not to my liking to hit a helpless man.”

But Larose had no breath to call out, and, lifted into an armchair, he just stared at his two captors. Even in his distress it appealed to him in unpleasant humor that twice within such a short space of time he had been caught when not upon his guard and ignominiously tied up.

The tall man went carefully over the knots and then nodded to his companion. “They’re all right, Neil; and now we’d best tie him to the chair.”

So another length of stout cord was produced from one of the bags and wound several times round Larose and the back of the chair.

Larose spoke at last. “But who are you?” he asked in hardly audible muffled tones behind the thick cloth.

The tall man smiled quite a pleasant smile. “We are your benefactors, my friend,” he said, “as we are going to save you any further suffering your poor mortal flesh is heir to.”

“But what have I done?” asked Larose, a cold horror seizing him at a realisation of what the words implied.

The man shrugged his shoulders, but then, immediately, smiled again. “Still, there is no reason why you shouldn’t know. It can’t do you any harm.” He pursed his lips. “You have offended the Irish Republican Army, Brother, and so are now going to pay the penalty!”

“But I have never had anything to do with it,” remonstrated Larose. “I have never interfered with it in my life.”

“Perhaps not,” agreed the other readily, “but you are Mr. Gilbert Larose, and you work for the police, and the Secret Service, and that is quite sufficient in our eyes.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you are a pawn in the game, and so have got to be taken off the board.”

He turned back to his companion, and together they busied themselves with the contents of the second bag. A wooden box about eight inches square was produced, and from it, wrapped several times round, with thick corrugated paper, was lifted out a black object of the size and shape of a large navel orange. The tall man handled it very carefully.

“My God!” exclaimed the horrified Larose. “Is that a bomb? Are you going to blow me up?”

The tall man nodded. “Both guesses quite correct, Brother, and you go to the top of the form.” He spoke almost with kindness. “Now, don’t you worry, for you’ll not feel a scrap of pain. You won’t even hear it going off. You’ll know nothing.”

Larose was in a muck sweat all over, but he pulled himself together bravely.

“I’ll buy you off,” he said. “This can be only a question of money. I’ll give you ￡500 to let me go. If you loose my hands, I’ll write a cheque, and one of you can go and cash it, while the other waits here. You can give yourselves plenty of time to get clear.”

“Sorry, but we’ve been paid once,” said the man regretfully, “and we’re quite straight in our way. Money’s very necessary to us, but we don’t work for it. We work for principle.” He held up his hand protestingly. “No, no, it’s no good arguing. You’re wasting your emotions.” There was quite a sad note in his tones. “So, give your last thoughts, my friend, to those you are leaving behind.”

Larose felt sick with horror, but he realised it was no good pleading, and that the man would not be turned from his purpose. He was dealing with a fanatic, and, as with von Ravenheim, one who was lost to all sense of right and wrong.

A length of fuse was produced from the bag, and the second man started to fasten it to the bomb, while the tall one lit a cigarette and strolled idly round the room, looking at the pictures and the ornaments.

But his attention was soon drawn to a pair of large silver-plated candlesticks upon the mantelpiece, and, lifting one down, he proceeded to examine it most interestedly. There was evidently something about it that was appealing strongly to him and, after a few moments, he called out with some enthusiasm, “Here, Neil, come and look at this! It’s a splendid bit of preVictorian work and the plating is as good as anything that can be done now. We have not learnt much in a hundred years.”

The second man walked over to where he was and took the candlestick from his hand. “Copper,” he remarked, feeling its weight, “and it looks like a bit of French work to me.”

“No, it isn’t,” said the other emphatically. “It’s English, right enough! Look at the curves of the socket and the fluted lines of the stem. It’s a typical Queen Caroline and, if so, it’s just over a hundred years old. That is its original plating, too, and hasn’t it worn well? Only just gone a little on the stem. I’d like old Johnson to see it. It’d give him quite a thrill!”

He glanced over his shoulder to Larose. “No, it’s all right, brother, we shan’t take it. We’re not thieves.” He made a grimace. “Just executioners, that’s all!”

Coming away from the mantelpiece and, the fuse now being adjusted, the bomb was placed close to the armchair, but beyond reach of Larose’s feet.

Then, making sure that everything was ready, the two men took off their overalls and, folding them up neatly, placed them in one of the bags.

“Now you won’t have to wait long, Mr. Larose,” said the tall man, striking a match. “This fuse will burn for only ten minutes and then your troubles will be all over. Just shut your eyes and make your mind a blank. Good-bye, and thank you for being sensible and not making a fuss,” and in a few seconds the men had disappeared from the room.

Larose looked up at the clock upon the mantelpiece. It was five and twenty minutes to four. Then at a quarter to four he would have ceased to live.

In a frenzy of mental agony, he struggled furiously to loosen his cords. But it was not the slightest use, as they had been tied too securely and soon, exhausted by his efforts, he let his muscles relax and lay quite still.

He could hear the murmur of the traffic outside, but a dreadful silence filled the room.

He could smell the burning fuse.

So, his life was nearly run now! He would see his wife and children no more! Never again would he hear their loved voices, never again ——

He looked up at clock. Only six minutes to go now! He stared hard. Only five! God, how slowly they were passing!

But tears now dimmed his eyes and he could no longer mark the passing of the time.

He breathed deeply and heavily in the last stages of his mental agony.

Then a new sound struck upon his ears and he held his breath to listen.

He was sure he had heard footsteps, stealthy footsteps, as of someone treading softly and not wanting to be heard!

Then came the click of a key in a lock, and in a lightning instant his door was flung wide and the room seemed to be filled with men.

“Damnation,” roared someone in a voice of thunder, “it’s a bomb!”

Larose closed his eyes. Then he heard friendly voices, and, sweetest of all sounds, the sound of running water. Someone must have torn off the fuse and thrown it into the bath!

“You’re all right, Mr. Larose,” boomed a big stout man, with detective-inplain-clothes written all over him. “We didn’t know what was happening, but we came just in time. That fuse had only about another half inch to burn. That’s right, boys! Rub his arms and legs well. Now, don’t you talk for a minute or two, Mr. Larose. Just wait and get back your nerve. Have you got any brandy here? Just nod your head. Take it easy now.”

But Larose began to recover very quickly, and when be had drunk the brandy and was handing back the empty glass, he looked at the clock again.

It was only ten minutes to four.

Then he turned his attention to those who were standing round him. The janitor of the building was there and four other men.

“You remember me, don’t you, Mr. Larose?” asked the big, stout man, who was evidently the leader of the party. “I’m Inspector Hammer, and was at the Yard when you were there, although I wasn’t an inspector then. These are Detectives Canny, Goodridge, and Rice.”

Larose smiled weakly at them all, but then, his strength returning every moment, asked quickly, “But how on earth did it happen you came here?”

The inspector smiled. “From information received,” he began, in the usual policeman stereotyped fashion, but then his face instantly sobered down. “No, this is no time for joking.” He looked at his watch. “Exactly twenty-two minutes ago, as the half-hour was striking, an urgent phone message from a call office reached the Yard that you were being held up at your rooms by two desperate characters. The speaker wouldn’t state his name, but he was so very agitated that we thought we’d risk it being a hoax. He gave your address, and so we jumped into a car and came off instantly. Then the janitor here let us in with his master key.”

“Yes, sir,” added the janitor to Larose, “and I saw the two men go out a little while ago. But I only saw their backs, and so can’t describe them, except that one was taller than the other.”

“That’s not much good is it?” laughed the inspector. He turned to Larose. “Now, sir, do you feel strong enough yet to tell us about these men?”

Larose nodded. “I had never seen them before, inspector,” he said, “and haven’t the remotest idea who they are. I opened the door to their ring and they just pounced upon me and trussed me up. Then one of them told me quite frankly they were members of the Irish Republican Army, and had been paid to blow me up.”

The inspector whistled. “The Irish Republican Army! Oh, if we could get hold of them! We’re wanting a number of those gentry just now. They’re very active and doing a lot of damage all over the country.”

“Well, you will get the fingerprints of these two, all right,” said Larose. He pointed to the mantelpiece. “For one thing, they handled those candlesticks, and besides, you ought to find them on the bomb.”

“Good!” exclaimed the inspector. “Then I’ll use your phone, if you don’t mind, and ring up for our fingerprint man straightaway. Now if you give us a good description of them, we’ll ——”

“Not here!” interrupted Larose. “Take me back with you at once to the Yard. I want to get in touch with the inspector who’s been handling all these explosion outrages, and with any luck”— his eyes gleamed —“we’ll have them both in the cells before night.”

“But you say you don’t know anything about them,” exclaimed the frowning inspector, “and have never seen them before! Then how are you going to get them taken before night?”

“You come along and see,” smiled Larose. “I’ve got some good ideas. If they haven’t taken fright, we ought to get them easily enough.”

A quarter of an hour later, Larose was telling his story to Inspector Drew, a man of much smaller dimensions than the burly Inspector Hammer.

The inspector heard him out, hardly saying a word the whole time. Then Larose asked. “Now, from the descriptions I have given you, can you place these two men?”

The inspector shook his head. “Never heard of them before! There are no men wanted, or even suspected of having been responsible for any bomb outrages, who answer to those descriptions.” He nodded. “I don’t think I am boasting when I state that the appearance of all the known bomb-men and the suspected ones, as well, are familiar to me.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of a number of bomb-men, and, unhappily, some of the worst, we have no descriptions. There is one among them, the ring-leader, and probably the mastermind of them all, who eludes us at every turn. Yes, he and his particular little band move among us like shadows. They do their dreadful work and they are gone — like shadows, too!”

“Leaving no traces behind them?” asked Larose. “I mean you haven’t got finger-prints of any of whom you have no description.”

“Oh, but we have.” said the Inspector instantly. “In several instances we have the fingerprints which they have left behind them. Now, in that explosion in the British Museum the week before last, when one of the Museum attendants was killed, we obtained the finger-marks of a bearded man who had been seen leaning against a window-sill in the gallery five minutes before the explosion occurred. We are sure that bearded man was the bomber, because no bearded man went out again through the turnstile and the beard was found later tucked away behind the hot water pipes.” He sighed heavily. “But I’m having a dreadful time, because I can’t pick up any trails. My department is in disgrace and any day now I may be told to stand down.”

“Then if I give you these two men who were going to bomb me,” smiled Larose, “even if they deny they were ever to my flat, their finger-prints may yet prove their guilt in other outrages?”

“Certainly!” nodded the inspector. He smiled. “If you give them to us.”

“Well, here goes,” said Larose, always enjoying a dramatic situation, “and I think you’ll get them right enough.” He paused a moment, and then went on, speaking very quickly. “To begin with, I am sure they are electroplaters by trade. Their overalls, in which they arrived, were clean and well patched, but there were some yellow-covered stains upon them, and I noticed also a number of small holes.” He nodded. “All the work of the acid which electroplaters use, and their fingers were stained, too.”

He went on. “Of course, I know acid is used in many trades, but these men were unduly interested in some old silver-plated candlesticks of mine upon the mantelpiece. One of them was evidently something of an expert, as he guessed most accurately how old the candlesticks were. But it was the silver-plating which appeared to interest him most and he remarked that, although it must have been done a hundred and odd years ago, it could not be done better even now.”

“Well, granted that they are electroplaters, what next?” asked the inspector, because Larose had stopped speaking.

Larose then spoke very quietly. “Then this same man, as he was examining one of the candlesticks said, and these were his exact words, ‘I’d like old Johnson to see it. It would give him quite a thrill!’” He snapped out quickly, as if as in old times he were an authority at the Yard. “Have a London Directory brought in and look for an electroplater called Johnson among the trades. If you find him, he’ll tell us who these men are.”

The inspector looked a little astonished and perhaps just a little awed. The deductions were so simple and Larose was so sure.

A London directory was produced and, the trade pages being turned up, sure enough there was a J. Johnson among the electroplaters. His place of business was in Clerkenwell road.

“Bring a telephone book,” snapped Larose. “We’ll make sure he’s on and if so, take care there’ll be no running into a back room to give these men warning, if he’s in the racket, too.”

“Yes, he’s on the phone, all right,” said the inspector after a few moments’ search, “and he must be in a good way of business, as he’s got two numbers.”

He prepared quickly for action and it was arranged that two cars should go. In the first would be the inspector and Larose, and in the second four plain-clothes detectives. Both cars were to stop a hundred yards away from the Johnson shop in Clerkenwell road.

The number of the shop was 218 and, reaching number 200, the first car was pulled up and Larose and the inspector stepped out. Larose was wearing a pair of big dark glasses, he sported a small moustache and his hat was pulled down well over his eyes.

Mindful that J. Johnson had two telephones, they were not surprised, upon arriving at his premises, to find that his shop was quite a good-sized one and, upon entering, to see that it was well appointed.

“If this Johnson is in with them,” whispered the inspector, “then, no doubt, he is a large contributor to the funds.” His voice thrilled a little. “We may be lighting upon something good.”

But, enquiring for Mr. Johnson personally and being shown into his private office, they both instantly formed the opinion that he would be no supporter of the Irish Republican Army. He was a well-dressed, smiling good-natured looking man, of middle age and massive proportions, and apparently not in the least likely to be associated with crime and political intrigue.

He looked very grave when the inspector told him he came from Scotland Yard. It was Larose, however, who opened the questioning and, with no beating about the bush, he came straight to the point.

“Do you know, sir,” he asked, “a working electroplater, an Irishman, tall, fair, with curly hair and blue eyes, pleasing to look at and with some amount of education?” Mr. Johnson looked graver still.

“I do,” he said. “What’s he done?”

“If he’s the man I mean,” said Larose sharply, “he’s a bomb-man, an active member of the Irish Republican Army and, most probably, has been involved in some of those explosions which have occurred lately. Who is he? You must not try to shield him.”

“Oh, I won’t shield him!” exclaimed Mr. Johnson warmly. “I’m a law-abiding citizen, I am, and although personally I like the man very much, I’d be one of the first to give him away, if he’s been doing what you think. His name is Fergus O’Haran Shane, and he’s got a little shop in Lord Street, just round the back of here. He’s a very clever craftsman, and when I’ve got any special work in a small way I give it to him to do.” He clicked his tongue. “Dear me, dear me, a well read, nice fellow like him being a bomb-man!” He nodded. “But I do hope you’re wrong.”

“Does he employ any workmen himself?” asked the inspector.

“Only one young fellow, an Irishman, too, called Neil,” replied Mr. Johnson, and Larose’s heart gave a big bump.

“Is he on the telephone?” asked the inspector.

“Oh, yes, I’ll give you his number. It’s on my little memorandum here. Ah, I see what you mean! No, of course I wouldn’t warn him. I tell you I’m a decent citizen, and I hate all violence. Look here, I’ll come straight away with you and show you where his place is. I won’t go in, but I’ll come far enough to show you that I’d have no time to let him know you were coming.”

So Mr. Johnson put on his hat and accompanied them round the corner, and with the four plainclothes men following not far behind.

“Now, that’s his shop,” he pointed out, “two doors beyond that public house.” A thought struck him, and he stopped dead. “But I say, I say, do you think Shane is likely to make a struggle, if he knows you have come to arrest him? Will he put up a fight?”

“For sure he will,” nodded the inspector. “So we two are going in to engage him in conversation, and then my men behind will rush him. That’s the only way. He’ll probably be armed to the teeth, and he’d pull a gun if he had the slightest warning.”

Mr Johnson looked very troubled. “But as a detective from Scotland Yard, I’m afraid he may recognise you at once. I have just remembered one of the men told me a little while ago that Shane often wasted a lot of time as a spectator in the police courts. My man said he knew all the judges and magistrates by name. So, depend upon it, he’ll know the police and detectives, too.”

The inspector considered. “That’s a bit awkward,” he said frowningly. “It’s part of our duty to face danger, but for all that, we don’t want to risk valuable lives if we can help it.”

“Here, I’ll manage it,” said Larose, and instantly he turned into a paper shop just by where they were then standing.

A minute later he came out with a score and more of newspapers under his arm. “I’ve bought up all his evening edition,” he grinned, “and half a dozen weekly ‘Comics’ as well. They’ll settle him. I’ll throw them in his face and grab him.” He gritted his teeth. “I’d like to do the job myself, I owe it to him. Rush in when I shout,” and, giving the inspector no time to protest, he strode away.

With his hat pulled well down over his forehead, he pushed open the door and walked into Shane’s shop. It was empty when he entered and he had to rap with his knuckles upon the counter to attract attention. Then, to his great satisfaction, it was Shane himself who appeared from the workroom at the back.

With his cigarette case in his hand, Larose at once walked a little way towards him, so that Shane should not go behind the counter, across which it would be difficult to grapple with him.

“What’ll you charge to resilver this for me?” he asked in a very hoarse tone of voice, holding the case only a few inches forward, so that Shane would be obliged to come close up to take it from him.

But the man did not seem to approach too readily, and Larose noted he was frowning. He had just glanced at the cigarette case and then fastened his eyes intently upon its owner. He seemed wary and suspicious in some way.

Indeed, he was suspicious, for had Larose only known it, he could not have done a worse thing than to approach the Irishman wearing dark glasses. Shane was always suspicious of dark glasses, holding them nearly always to be an attempt at disguise.

Larose thought like lightning. He had only just remembered, with a pang of anger for his carelessness, that he was wearing the same suit of clothes as when he had been tied up in his flat not two hours previously, and its color and pattern might any moment strike some chord of memory in Shane’s mind. So he spoke up quickly.

“Mr. Johnson, round the corner,” he said, “told me to come here,” and at once the frown on Shane’s face lifted.

“Let’s look at it,” he began, “and ——”

But he got no further, for Larose flung up the newspapers into his face and then grabbed him and tripped him up. He had no need to shout for help for the inspector, getting anxious because of the delay, had peeped round the door, and seeing what had happened, was by his side in an instant, with the four plainclothes men crowding in after him without making a sound.

Shane had struggled furiously, but it was all to no good, and in less than a minute he was lying handcuffed and with his legs tied. From his hip pocket they had plucked a loaded automatic.

“Now, we must be very careful,” said the inspector, preparing to lead the way into the workroom. “We’ve not made much noise, and the other man, Neil, may be about somewhere.”

“No, I don’t think so,” commented Larose, “or this chap would have shouted to give him warning.”

And Larose proved right, for the whole place was empty. It only consisted of four rooms, the shop, the workroom and a kitchen and bedroom behind.

Leaving the inspector and three of the plainclothes men to make a thorough search of the premises, Larose went back to Shane who was now sitting propped up in a chair. The Irishman was looking very white, and was breathing heavily, but there was an easy smile upon his face.

“Like a cigarette, Brother?” said Larose in quite a friendly tone, and instantly Shane frowned and his face became the very picture of amazement.

“How the devil do you come to be here?” he asked.

“Oh, your little cracker didn’t go off,” smiled Larose, “and I just called round to tell you about it.”

“Anyo............