icer said to Robertson:
"This is like the last act in a Third Avenue melodrama."

"Life has a liking for such plays," answered Robertson. As they left the
Hanbury mansion the clock of Grace Church struck midnight. Robertson
glanced down Broadway once more and saw that the long thoroughfare was
almost deserted; only here and there the bluish-white light from the
electric lamps shone on the bayonets of the sentinels patrolling up and
down at long intervals. Then he repaired to the _Daily Telegraph_
offices to dictate his notes, so that the huge rolls of printed paper
might announce to the world to-morrow that the first victims of the
terrible war had fallen on the streets of New York.

The factory of Horace Hanbury & Son was not shut down.

_Chapter VII_

THE RED SUN OVER THE GOLDEN GATE

Too-oo-ot, bellowed the whistle of a big steamer that was proceeding
gingerly through the fog which enveloped the broad Bay of San Francisco
early on the morning of May seventh. The soft, white mist crept through
the Golden Gate among the masts and funnels of the ships made fast to
the docks, enveloped the yellow flame of the lanterns on the foremast in
a misty veil, descended from the rigging again, and threatened to
extinguish the long series of lights along the endless row of docks. The
glistening bands of light on the Oakland shore tried their best to
pierce the fog, but became fainter and fainter in the damp, penetrating,
constantly moving masses of mist. Even the bright eye on Angel Island
was shut out at last. Too-oo-ot, again sounded the sullen cry of warning
from the steamer in the Golden Gate--Too-oo-ot. And then from Tiburon
opposite the shrill whistle of the ferry-boat was heard announcing its
departure to the passengers on the early train from San Rafael. The
flickering misty atmosphere seemed like a boundless aquarium, an
aquarium in which gigantic prehistoric, fabulous creatures stretched
their limbs and glared at one another with fiery eyes. Trembling beams
of light hovered between the dancing lights on and between the ships,
rising and falling like transparent bars when the shivering sentries on
deck moved their lanterns, and threw into relief now some dripping bits
of rigging, and again the black outline of a deck-house as the sailor
hurried below for a drink to refresh his torpid spirits.

The cold wind blew the damp fog into Market Street, forced it uphill and
then let it roll down again, filling every s