"Trouble is," Pink went on, "you don't know who to trust. They're
not all foreigners. Let's get away from here; it makes me sick."
They wandered through the night together, almost unconsciously in
the direction of the City Club, but within a block of it they
realized that something was wrong. A hospital ambulance dashed by,
its gong ringing wildly, and a fire engine, not pumping, stood at
the curb.
"Come on," Pink said suddenly. "There were two explosions. It's
just possible--"
The club was more sinister than the burning bank; it was a mass of
grim wreckage, black and gaping, with now and then the sound of
settling masonry, and already dotted with the moving flash-lights
of men who searched.
To Pink this catastrophe was infinitely greater than that of the
bank. Men he knew had lived there. There were old club servants
who were like family retainers; one or two employees were
ex-service men for whom he had found employment. He stood there,
with Willy Cameron's hand on his arm, with a new maturity and a
vast suffering in his face.
"Before God," he said solemnly, "I swear never to rest until the
fellows behind this are tried, condemned and hanged.
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