The other turned to look at him. But their argument went no further. The underground tube reverberated with a tremendous explosion that sounded like a mighty cannonade.
The station became a mass of wreckage. Girders were twisted between the tracks. The change booth was demolished and its occupant was killed. There were half a dozen people entering the southbound station; not one remained alive!
On the street above, the newsboy's cry of 'Big explosions!' came to a sudden end as the urchin was thrown headlong and his expressive words were drowned by the muffled report that came from below.
People entering the subway staggered back in the face of a vast volume of white smoke that reeked with fumes of sulphur!
From across the street, terror-stricken persons from the northbound subway station emerged from the kiosk, shouting frantically for assistance for those who remained below!
Once again some unseen hand had caused doom and destruction! A third terror had come to New York, and another chain of hideous details was ready for the grinding presses that thrived on death and tragedy.
The pleasant, open circle on the fringe of Central Park became the headquarters for a group of rescue workers, while mounted police arrived to drive back the curious thousands who assembled in spite of the danger which might still exist.
In three hours, terror had gripped Manhattan! Three terrible calamities - each a horrible event in itself -
had occurred at intervals of approximately sixty minutes!
What might happen next was something that no one could venture to foretell. Any spot in busy New York might become a mass of wreckage, with victims shrieking their misfortune.
Danger lay everywhere, and emergency squads of police could only wait, hopeful that they might be nearby to lend their aid should another mighty tragedy follow those that had gone before!
CHAPTER II. THE MAN WHO FEARED DEATH
OF all the mad frenzy that gripped New York on that momentous day, none could equal the wild excitement in the office of the Evening Classic.
In the realm of tabloid newspapers, the Classic led all others in sensationalism. Its reporters were familiar with all quarters of the underworld. Its photographers stopped at nothing to obtain pictures.
The Classic claimed an inside knowledge of all that went on in New York!
From the moment that news of the first explosion reached the Classic office, the managing editor gave orders that resembled those of a general whose army is going into battle.
The editorial offices of the tabloid were located in an old, squalid building that was on the verge of condemnation. The reporters' room was cramped for space. The city editor sat in a corner before a broken-down desk and gave out assignments to reporters as rapidly as they entered the office.
The clicking of typewriters and the loud telephone conversations caused a continual hubbub.
The Grand Central explosion added to the excitement of the Classic office. Photographers were dispatched to the new scene of tragedy. Reporters wrote wild rumors linking the two explosions.
Acting on a hunch, one story predicted more bombings. The Columbus Circle explosion fulfilled the prediction.
Basing its claims on vague inside information gained by its reporters, the Classic predicted a fourth catastrophe, setting it at half-past one in the afternoon, an hour after the third explosion.
When two o'clock arrived and no news of a fresh calamity came to the Classic office, another sensational feature was launched by the tabloid.
This was an offer of five thousand dollars reward for information that would lead to the discovery of the fiends who had started the wave of terror.
Special editions of the Classic were rushed from the presses.
Shortly after three o'clock, a tall, thin man came into the editorial office of the Classic and elbowed his way between the typewriter desks.
'Hello, Grimes,' said the city editor. 'What have you got?'
The tall man shrugged his shoulders.
'Is the old man in?' asked Grimes.
'Yes;' replied the city editor.
'Guess I'd better see him,' returned Grimes.
He went to the corner door marked 'Hardan Raynor, Managing Editor,' opened it, and entered.
A short, dark-visaged man was sitting in front of a mahogany desk. His surroundings seemed a marked contrast to the dilapidated furnishings of the reporters' room.
The man, himself, was a contrast. There was no excitement in his bearing. He was carefully reading the latest edition of the Classic and he did not look up for several minutes.
Finally he surveyed Grimes with a Napoleonic stare.
Harlan Raynor, managing editor of the Classic, was the directing brain of the most sensational tabloid newspaper in the world.
It was his offer of five thousand dollars that had brought Grimes to see him. Raynor knew it, for Grimes was one of the Classic's star reporters, a man whose value increased with the importance of whatever matter might be at stake.
'I think we'll have something for you, chief,' said Grimes quietly. 'I've been working with Tewkson. He's been out all day, trying to locate a bird named Vervick.
'Tewkson has inside dope that Vervick knows something about bombs. He thinks the five thousand dollars is going to work it! I've come in to keep contact with Tewkson.'
Raynor nodded approvingly.
'This may fetch it, chief,' said Grimes, picking up a late copy of the Classic. 'I've got to hand it to you!
Five grand for information - and no questions asked! Complete confidence!
'That's the gag, all right! This stuff of rewards for arrest and conviction are all baloney. You've got the right idea! Keep it between ourselves; don't squeal on the guy that spills the dope! Every rat in the underworld will have his tongue hanging out when he sees that offer!'
'That's only part of it, Grimes,' said Raynor tersely. 'I have planned further than you think. There may be several implicated in these explosions. Perhaps one of the guilty men may come to see us. Such things have happened before!'
'That's right!' agreed Grimes admiringly. 'And I'll tell you, chief, that Tewkson will pull it if this bloke he's after really knows something about it!'
There was a knock at the door. A porter entered carrying a bundle of tied-up newspapers.
'Put them in the corner,' said the managing editor. Whenever a big story broke, Harlan Raynor kept two hundred copies of every edition. They were brought up to his office regularly.
He handed a newspaper to Grimes and phoned instructions that any call for the star reporter should be relayed to the managing editor's office.
Ten minutes passed before the telephone rang. Raynor answered it, then turned over the instrument to Grimes.
'Tewkson,' he said.
Grimes spoke in short, disconnected sentences. Finally he said:
'All right, boy, I'll meet you at the corner. I'll handle him from there on. Let me talk to him a moment.'
There was a pause; then Grimes continued:
'This is Mr. Grimes of the Classic. You have heard of me? Good! Yes, I'm with Mr. Raynor, the managing editor.
'He means just what he said in the newspaper. His promise is good. You'll come with Tewkson? All right!'
He hung up the phone and turned to the managing editor, who was quietly marking lines in the newspaper that laid before him.
'Tewkson has found Vervick,' said Grimes. 'He's bringing him here right away. I'll meet them outside.'
'Get him in here as soon as possible,' ordered Raynor. He pointed across the room. 'In the side door.'
