us.

We made our way on cautious tiptoe through a dining room to a
living room, and, finding nothing, proceeded upstairs. There was
not a soul, apparently, in the house, nor in fact anything to
indicate that it was different from most small suburban homes,
until at last we mounted to the attic.

It was finished off in one large room across the back of the house
and two in front. As we opened the door to the larger room, we
could only gaze about in surprise. This was the rendezvous, the
arsenal, literary, explosive and toxicological of the "Group."
Ranged on a table were all the materials for bomb-making, while in
a cabinet I fancied there were poisons enough to decimate a city.

On the walls were pictures, mostly newspaper prints, of the
assassins of McKinley, of King Humbert, of the King of Greece, of
King Carlos and others, interspersed with portraits of anarchist
and anti-militarist leaders of all lands.

Kennedy sniffed. Over all I, too, could catch the faint odor of
stale tobacco. No time was to be lost, however, and while Craig
set to work rapidly going through the contents of a desk in the
corner, I glanced over the contents of a drawer of a heavy mission
table.

"Here's some of Annenberg's literature," I remarked, coming across
a small pile of manuscript, entitled "The Human Slaughter House."

"Read it," panted Kennedy, seeing that I had about completed my