"Put me down," I cried. "Oh, if Cyrus were only here!"
"Cyrus!" shouted Mr. DeVere. "Who is Cyrus? Cyrus shall never have
you, I swear."
He raised me above his head with one hand and hurled me through the
plate glass window into the yard below. Then he threw the furniture
down upon me, piece by piece, the piano last of all. I then heard him
rush down the stairs, and in a moment felt a stream of liquid
trickling down among the broken furniture. I recognized the acrid
smell of petroleum, heard the scratch of a match, and the fierce
roaring of flames; felt a sudden scorching heat, and remembered no
more.
* * * * *
When I regained consciousness I was lying in my own bed, and Mrs.
DeVere was sitting beside me, fanning me.