I believe my intelligent Readers need not be told what this object was. The people fleeing from this individual had received some warning of his intent, for seconds earlier he had struck a match to light the fuse. We had not observed this. When the missile came hurtling toward us, we all stood frozen.

All except one. Almost instantly, or so it seemed, there came a deafening explosion, not from where we stood but in the alleyway whence the dynamite had been thrown. As the noise died away I heard Emerson say, “Well done, my boy. I don’t know how you did it, but well done.”

I turned to see Ramses, his arm still raised and his expression more unguarded than usual. “It was sheer reflex, Father. I didn’t have time to think, the fuse was so short. Is he . . .”

A single prostrate form lay unmoving on the street. Luckily most of the bystanders had scurried out of range. Some of them had sustained minor injuries, but many of the storefronts, most of them of flimsy construction, had been reduced to smoldering rubble. Tatters of brightly colored rugs littered the street, together with broken pots and shards of glass.

I picked my way through the debris to the fallen man. Emerson tried to prevent me from seeing the blackened face and the small fires that licked at his garments, but it was my Christian duty to make certain the fellow was beyond my help.

He was. This was fortunate in one sense—his injuries were too severe to be mended—unfortunate in another, since I had hoped we would be able to capture one of these men alive and persuade him to talk.

“I didn’t mean to kill him,” Ramses said in a hollow voice. His countenance was impassive, as always, but I could hear the horror he was attempting to conceal.

“Would you rather he blew us to smithereens?” Emerson cleared his throat noisily. “I apologize, my boy. I respect your feelings about the taking of human life, but if this is another cursed Godwin, he deserved what happened to him.”

“It must be one of the Godwins, Emerson,” I said. “They are the only assassins after us just now. I wonder if this one could be Guy?”

“As in Guy Fawkes, the gunpowder enthusiast? Quite possibly. These people don’t have much imagination. They formulate what they believe to be a clever plan and stick doggedly to it even when it goes awry. Let us see if this fellow, like Judas, has a calling card.”

I allowed Emerson to search the body. I have dealt with withered mummies and bodies in various stages of disrepair, but the procedure is not one I relish.

The square of pasteboard had been severely damaged, but there was enough left to enable us to make out a name.