O'Donnell and his wife drove furiously to Hoxton. Neither spoke the
whole way. Each was mute with terror, hope, and fear, all beating
wildly about in their minds.
When they reached Cecil Street there was no longer any doubt of the
truth of Lavirotte's story. The house was all in a blaze. A double
line of police kept back the crowd, and several engines were busily at
work.
The cab drew up just outside the line of police. O'Donnell told his
wife to sit where she was. He had snatched up an overcoat and hat on
his way from the theatre, and in the cab removed as much of the
make-up as possible from his face, so that there was little or nothing
unusual in his appearance.
He was about to rush through the line of police when one of them
caught him.
O'Donnell shook off the hand, and said: "It is my house. Is my boy
safe?"
"Beg pardon, sir. There's the inspector," said the policeman.
O'Donnell went up to the inspector, and cried excitedly: "This is my
house. Can you tell me if my boy is safe?"
The inspector turned round and looked steadily at O'Donnell for a
second or two. "Are you sure the boy was in the house?"
"Yes, quite sure; and an old servant. Bridget is her name."
"Oh," said the inspector, looking at O'Donnell again, "I think you may
make your mind easy. We did not know there was anyone in the house. We
heard it was Mr. O'Donnell's house."
"My name is O'Donnell, and my boy and servant were in the house when
we left. The boy is between two and three years old."
"You are quite sure the boy and woman were there at the time the fire
broke out?"
"When did it break out?" asked O'Donnell.
"At about half-past six; between that and seven."
"Oh, yes," said O'Donnell. "They are sure to have been both there at
that time. The boy always went to bed at six, and the servant never
stirred out. She did not know a soul in the neighbourhood."
"Then, sir, I think you may make your mind quite easy. It is almost
certain that upon the first alarm of fire she fled with the child from
the house."
"But where can she have fled to? I tell you she had no friends in the
neighbourhood. We are only newly come here."
"Perhaps she might have known where you were."
"Oh, yes, she knew where I was. She knew I was to be at the Oberon
Theatre tonight, and that my wife was to be with me. I was to have
sung there to-night, but had to let a friend take my part when I got
this news. Do you really think, inspector, the boy is safe?"
"Well, you see, the chances are a thousand to one the servant is safe,
because it isn't likely she was asleep at such an hour, and just after
putting the child to bed; and 'twould be quite easy for any grown-up
person to get out of a small house like that."
"Do you know where the fire broke out?"
"In that room there, looking into the side passage."
"Why, that's where the boy and the servant slept."
"Then, sir, that makes me all the surer they are both safe, for the
chances are that by some accident she set fire to the room and then
ran away with the child."
"I thank God," cried O'Donnell fervently. "I will run and tell my
wife; she is in a cab near."
O'Donnell ran back to the hansom. "Good news!" he cried, "good news!
The inspector tells me the boy and Bridget are safe."
Mrs. O'Donnell merely clasped her hands. She did not speak. Her hands
fell in her lap. Her head dropped back. She had fainted.
"Policeman," cried O'Donnell, "where is the nearest hotel?"
The policeman told him. O'Donnell jumped into the cab and drove to it.
Restoratives were applied, and in a short time she recovered
consciousness.
The people at the hotel had heard of the fire, and were willing to
lend all the assistance in their power. A room was prepared for Mrs.
O'Donnell, and when he had seen that everything was done for her
comfort, Eugene left her, promising to return soon.
"You will bring him to me the moment you find him?" said the poor
mother feebly. "I should be quite well if Mark were here. I do not
want you to leave me, but you must go and find our boy. If he and
Bridget are not at the theatre, you are sure to find him in some
neighbour's house. Anyone would take them in!"
O'Donnell assured his wife he would not lose a moment in bringing the
boy, kissed her tenderly, and left her.
As he returned to the fire, he thought: "I need not lose time going to
the theatre. Lavirotte and Fraser know I am here and am likely to stay
here, and they will be sure to send someone with news of the boy and
nurse if they should turn up at the theatre."
When he got back to the fire, he sought the inspector and asked him if
any message had come from the Oberon.
The inspector replied in the negative. Then O'Donnell told him he was
sure a messenger would come if Bridget and the boy got there. Then he
asked the inspector: "Wasn't it likely if Bridget ran to any of the
neighbours they would take her and the boy in?"
"Of course, they would be only too glad of the chance," said the
inspector.
"Is there nothing can be done?" said O'Donnell. "Can I do nothing?"
The inspector waved his hand towards the fire: "That's all in the
hands of the firemen now. They had given up trying to save any of the
furniture before you arrived. Since you left me I have been making
inquiries, and I find that before anyone entered the house the room
over the passage was burnt out, and that nothing is known up to this
of the child or the servant. I got a description of both the nurse and
the boy from your next-door neighbour, and sent it to the office. Word
will be sent round from there, and the moment they have any news they
are to forward it to me."
"What had I better do, then?" said O'Donnell, who was in a state of
feverish restlessness.
"If you will take my advice," said the inspector, "you will go back to
Mrs. O'Donnell, and stay with her. We shall certainly have the first
news, and I will send it on to you."
"I can't," he said; "I can't go back until I have the boy with me. I
told her I would go to her the moment I found him, and if I went
without him she would get a great shock, for her first impression
would be that I had bad news about him, and I should be unable to get
that idea out of her mind for a long time, if at all, before he was
brought to us. I cannot, I will not go back without him," said
O'Donnell, frantically. He now for the first time realised the fact
that his boy might be lost to them for ever. "It will kill his
mother," he added, "if anything happens to our child."
Then he put his hand before his eyes, and turned away from the
inspector.
The inspector turned away from him, issued some unnecessary orders in
a loud voice, and walked off.
O'Donnell could not leave the spot. If good news were to come, that
would be the first place it would reach. If it was his cruel fate that
he should have to learn bad news, it should be extracted from the
ashes of that blazing fire. No, he could not leave this spot. He could
not return to his wife; and to go inquiring of neighbour after
neighbour if he had seen Mark, would be triple pain upon pain,
disappointment upon disappointment, suspense unhappily resolved on
suspense unhappily renewed.
By this time it was growing late. The fire had spent its fury. There
was no danger of its spreading, and the roof of the doomed house was
expected every moment to fall in.
O'Donnell paced up and down restlessly inside the lines of police
where the firemen were busy. Now and then he spoke a few words to the
inspector. Now and then the inspector spoke a few cheering words to
him.
Still no message came from the theatre. Still no message came from the
police-station.
Another hour dragged its weary length along; and still no message, no
news, no tidings of any kind. Gradually the inspector had seemed to
lose hopefulness. He had begun to admit to Eugene it was strange
they heard nothing of the woman or the boy. He looked at his watch.
"Half-past eleven," he said. "I am surprised. And yet, I cannot but
believe they have both escaped."
Suddenly there was a movement in the crowd outside the line of police.
A sergeant came to the inspector, who was standing with O'Donnell, and
told him that a woman representing herself as the child's nurse was in
the crowd.
The inspector and O'Donnell hastened to the spot where she stood.
O'Donnell was not able to speak. He saw she had not the boy with her.
"When did you leave the house?" said the inspector.
"At about half-past six."
"You took the boy with you?"
"No, sir. I left him in the house."
"My God!" cried O'Donnell. "Then there is no hope?"
This question, addressed to the inspector by O'Donnell, was not
answered. The policeman turned away, and, addressing one of the
sergeants, said: "The crowd must stand farther back."
O'Donnell seized the railing of the house opposite his burning home,
and said quietly to himself: "Our little boy! our little Mark is dead!
We shall never see him again, never!"
Then he placed both his arms on the railings, and leaned his head on
his arms, and the inspector led the woman away, and the sergeant kept
the crowd farther back, and the people who had been looking at the
fire through the windows facing where he leant, went away from their
windows, drew down the blinds, and lowered the gas. They knew
O'Donnell by sight. They had watched what had passed, and they guessed
that the father had been overwhelmed by the certainty of his child's
death.