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 beneath him, were all covered with the white dust of Krakatit. Daimon held him back and at that moment there was a loud cry and several people rushed on to the platform. “Don’t tread on Krakatit, it will explode,” ordered some cracked voice, but the people had already thrown themselves on the ground and were collecting the white powder into match-boxes, struggling, writhing in a heap on the ground.

“Shut the door,” roared somebody. The lights went out. At that moment Daimon kicked open the little door behind the blackboard and dragged Prokop out into the darkness.

He turned on a pocket electric lamp. They were in a windowless hovel, with tables piled on top of one another, trays for beer, a lot of musty clothing. He quickly dragged Prokop on further: the unsavoury black hole of a staircase, black and narrow steps leading downwards. Half-way down them they were overtaken by the tousled girl. “I am going with you,” she whispered, and dug her fingers into Prokop’s arm. Daimon led them out into a yard, turning the light of the pocket lamp about him; around there was black darkness. He opened a gate and they found themselves on the road. Before Prokop could reach the car, struggling to throw off the girl, the motor had begun to throb and Daimon was at the wheel. “Quickly!” Prokop threw himself into the car, the girl behind him. There was a jerk and the car flew into the darkness. It was icily cold and the girl shivered in her thin clothes. Prokop wrapped her up in a fur rug and himself settled in the other corner. The car was racing along