Suddenly, Will, as cravenly as he could, spoke from behind the Editor: ‘Excuse me, Mr Brython, I’m… I’m very sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering whether there was anything we should do right away. Would you like me to tell the police?’

The Editor was thrown off his stride. Without thinking, he said, ‘Of course not. Can you imagine what a hash they’d make of things?’

Someone in the crowd shouted, ‘You’ve lost it! We’ll all be burnt alive!’ And the crowd panicked. They realized that the Editor was no more than a sixty-year-old man in a suit, and that the Beast was just a job. Those who’d already grabbed bags and jackets surged for the exit. Others abandoned their things where they lay. The Features editor wavered, then ran. The Diary desk deserted en bloc. Only Newsdesk and the subs were still holding together.

The Editor fell back on the most important principle that journalism had taught him: anything that works. He reached under his jumper to draw out the pistol he’d stowed there and his fingertips found the smooth grip warmed by his body. But, as he was about to slide it out and fire into the ceiling, a means of gambling less occurred to him. His quarterdeck voice rang out: ‘A million pounds! A million pounds to anyone!’

That slowed them down, drilled as they’d been in following the money, in knowing: cui bono?

‘You heard me! A million pounds to anyone, immediately and in cash.’

Many of them, the whole Diary desk among them, were too far gone to care. They crowded through the doorway, knocking down a portly young Sport sub with mutton chops, who scrambled desperately back to his feet and away. A long-serving political correspondent, in the sudden knowledge of freedom, turned on the threshold, clinging to the wall, and shouted, ‘I’ll write your obituary, Brython. I’ll write your obituary!’

The Editor marked him for later retribution. He told the rest, ‘You know I have the money. And I give my word as your Editor that anyone who receives so much as a scratch or bruise as a result of an attempt to break into this bunker will receive a million pounds in apology from me personally.’

Someone said very loudly, ‘You can’t just buy us off.’ But many thought, a million quid just for a bruise? The danger must be non-existent. A man as astute as the Editor wouldn’t throw cash away like that. And imagine what it would be for a broken leg.