“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s me, Thursday—­Hetty,” she said.  “Two men have just broken into the pressroom, through a window.  They were men from Royal, and they didn’t steal anything, but ran away in great haste.  I—­I’m afraid something is wrong, Thursday!”

Even while she spoke he was rapidly dressing.

“Wait!” he called to her.  In a few moments he opened the door and joined her.

Without hesitation he began walking rapidly toward the office, and the girl kept step with him.  He asked no questions whatever, but us soon as she had led him to the open window he leaped through it and switched on an electric light.  An instant later he cried aloud, in a voice of fear: 

“Get out, Hetty!  Run—­for your life!”

“Run yourself, Thursday, if there’s danger,” she coolly returned.

But he shouted “Run—­run—­run!” in such thrilling, compelling tones that the girl shrank away and dashed across the vacant lot to the hotel before she turned again in time to see Smith leap from the window and make a dash toward the rear.  He was carrying something—­something extended at arms’ length before him—­and he crossed the lane and ran far into the field before stooping to set down his burden.

Now he was racing back again, running as madly as if a troop of demons was after him.  A flash cleft the darkness; a deep detonation thundered and echoed against the hills; the building against which Hetty leaned shook as if an earthquake had seized it, and Thursday Smith was thrown flat on his face and rolled almost to the terrified girl’s feet, where he lay motionless.  Only the building saved her from pitching headlong too, but as the reverberations died away, to be followed by frantic screams from the rudely wakened population of Millville, Hetty sank upon her knees and turned the man over, so that he lay face up.

He opened his eyes and put up one hand.  Then he struggled to his feet, trembling weakly, and his white face smiled into the girl’s anxious one.

“That was a close call, dear,” he whispered; “but your timely discovery saved us from a terrible calamity.  I—­I don’t believe there is much harm done, as it is.”

Hetty made no reply.  She was thinking of the moments he had held that deadly Thing in his hands, while he strove to save lives and property from destruction.

The inevitable crowd was gathering now, demanding in terrified tones what had happened.  Men, women and children poured from the houses in scant attire, all unnerved and fearful, crying for an explanation of the explosion.

“Keep mum, Hetty,” said Smith, warningly.  “It will do no good to tell them the truth.”

She nodded, realizing it was best the villagers did not suspect that an enemy of the newspaper had placed them all in dire peril.

“Dynamite?” she asked in a whisper.

“Yes; a bomb.  But for heaven’s sake don’t mention it.”