“Is Mr. Thomas coming, please?”
“He wouldn’t dream of such a thing,” said the assistant contemptuously. “He doesn’t need you. In a quarter of an hour we shall have it ready, and then, gloria victoria! Then I shall have a drink.”
“Please tell him that . . . that I want that address!”
“That’s already been dealt with by the boy,” said the assistant. “Mr. Thomas tells you to go to hell. Do you think that he’ll leave his work just now when the great moment is being reached? We’re on the point of making it and then—there we are.”
Prokop screamed out in horror: “Run and tell him—quickly—that he mustn’t turn on the high frequency current! He must stop it! Or—something will happen—run as fast as you can! He doesn’t know . . . he doesn’t know that Daimon—for God’s sake stop him!”
“Pooh!” the assistant broke into a short laugh. “Mr. Thomas knows what he’s doing and you” Here the butt of the cigarette flew through the partition. “Good-night!”
Prokop sprang to the grille.
“Hands up,” came a cry from the other side, and the guard’s whistle sounded piercingly. Prokop took to flight.
He ran along the main road, jumped over the ditch at the side, and ran over the soft ground, stumbling over a ploughed field. He fell over, picked himself up, and dashed on. He stopped with a beating heart. All around him was darkness and deserted fields. Now they wouldn’t be able to catch him. He listened; all was quiet. He could
