“What are you dewin’ with that switch?” he bawled in surprise.  “Han’t I told you—­”

Then he saw the set expression of Azuma-zi’s eyes as the Asiatic came out of the shadow towards him.

In another moment the two men were grappling fiercely in front of the great dynamo.

“You coffee-headed fool!” gasped Holroyd, with a brown hand at his throat.  “Keep off those contact rings.”  In another moment he was tripped and reeling back upon the Lord of the Dynamos.  He instinctively loosened his grip upon his antagonist to save himself from the machine.

The messenger, sent in furious haste from the station to find out what had happened in the dynamo shed, met Azuma-zi at the porter’s lodge by the gate.  Azuma-zi tried to explain something, but the messenger could make nothing of the black’s incoherent English, and hurried on to the shed.  The machines were all noisily at work, and nothing seemed to be disarranged.  There was, however, a queer smell of singed hair.  Then he saw an odd-looking crumpled mass clinging to the front of the big dynamo, and, approaching, recognised the distorted remains of Holroyd.

The man stared and hesitated a moment.  Then he saw the face, and shut his eyes convulsively.  He turned on his heel before he opened them, so that he should not see Holroyd again, and went out of the shed to get advice and help.

When Azuma-zi saw Holroyd die in the grip of the Great Dynamo he had been a little scared about the consequences of his act.  Yet he felt strangely elated, and knew that the favour of the Lord Dynamo was upon him.  His plan was already settled when he met the man coming from the station, and the scientific manager who speedily arrived on the scene jumped at the obvious conclusion of suicide.  This expert scarcely noticed Azuma-zi, except to ask a few questions.  Did he see Holroyd kill himself?  Azuma-zi explained he had been out of sight at the engine furnace until he heard a difference in the noise from the dynamo.  It was not a difficult examination, being untinctured by suspicion.

The distorted remains of Holroyd, which the electrician removed from the machine, were hastily covered by the porter with a coffee-stained tablecloth.  Somebody, by a happy inspiration, fetched a medical man.  The expert was chiefly anxious to get the machine at work again, for seven or eight trains had stopped midway in the stuffy tunnels of the electric railway.  Azuma-zi, answering or misunderstanding the questions of the people who had by authority or impudence come into the shed, was presently sent back to the stoke-hole by the scientific manager.  Of course a crowd collected outside the gates of the yard—­a crowd, for no known reason, always hovers for a day or two near the scene of a sudden death in London—­two or three reporters percolated somehow into the engine-shed, and one even got to Azuma-zi; but the scientific expert cleared them out again, being himself an amateur journalist.