Cyril McNeile

“ Right in the centre of the beam, lying in the middle of the floor, was a small chamois leather bag. It seemed unhurt, and, without thinking, Hugh picked it up and put it in his pocket. Then switching off the torch, they both clambered through the hole, dropped on to a lean-to roof, and reached the ground.
They were at the back of the house in some deserted mews, and rapidity of movement was clearly indicated. Already a crowd was hurrying to the scene of the explosion, and slipping quietly out of the dark alley, they joined in themselves.
"Go home, Ted," said Drummond. "I must get the others." ”

“ Why, Mrs. Hugh, they are literally worth untold gold in the right market. They are absolutely priceless. I've never even thought of such stones. That one that you're holding in your hand would be worth over a quarter of a million pounds, if you could get the right buyer."
For a moment no one spoke; then Hugh laughed cheerily.
"Bang goes next month's dress allowance, old thing!" He swept them all into the bag, and stood up. "I'm laying even money that the bomb-thrower is coughing some and then again over his bread-and-milk. This bag must have been in the desk." ”

“ Flat on their faces, their arms covering their heads, they lay on the floor waiting, as in days gone by they had waited for the bursting of a too-near crump. They heard Ginger Martin, as he blundered round the room, and then—suddenly it came.
There was a deafening roar, and a sheet of flame which seemed to fill the room. Great lumps of the ceiling rained down and the big roll top desk, cracked in pieces and splintered into matchwood, fell over on top of them. But it had done its work: it had borne the full force of the explosion in their direction. As a desk its day was past ”

“ Hugh thoughtfully lit a cigarette.
"Our great difficulty, before Zaboleff was kind enough to present us with the address of their headquarters, was to get in touch with the man at the top. And now the headquarters are no more. No man can work in an office with periodical boulders falling on his head from the roof, and a large hole in the wall just behind him. ”

“ And so—unless he knows me—he won't be able to carry on the good work when he finds that neither of my boots has reached the top of St. Paul's. We shall be parted again—which is dreadful to think of. There's no cheery little meeting ground where we can foregather for the matutinal Martini or even Manhattan. ”