Ford, “so the sooner I get you away, the better. I've only to smash the
panels close to the bolts, put my arm through the hole, and draw the
bolts back. Then, another blow on the spring lock when the firing is
loudest, and we are in the hall. Should anything happen to me, you must
know how to make your escape alone. Across the hall is a door leading to
an iron ladder. That ladder leads to a trap-door. The trap-door is open.
When you reach the roof, run westward toward a lighted building.”
“I am not going without you,” said Miss Dale quietly; “not after what
you have done for me.”
“I haven't done anything for you yet,” objected Ford. “But in case I get
caught I mean to make sure there will be others on hand who will.”
He pulled his pencil and a letter from his pocket, and on the back of
the envelope wrote rapidly: “I will try to get Miss Dale up through the
trap in the roof. You can reach the roof by means of the apartment house
in Devonshire Street. Send men to meet her.”
In the groups of officials half hidden in the doorway farther down the
street, he could make out the bandaged head of Cuthbert. “Cuthbert!” he
called. Weighting the envelope with a coin, he threw it into the air. It
fell in the gutter, under a lamp-post, and full in view, and at once
the two madmen below splashed the street around it with bullets. But,
indifferent to the bullets, a policeman sprang from a dark areaway and
flung himself upon it. The next moment he staggered. Then limping, but
holding himself erect, he ran heavily toward the group of officials. The
Home Secretary snatched the envelope from him, and held it toward the
light.
In his desire to learn if his message had reached those on the outside,
Ford leaned far over the sill of the window. His imprudence was all but
fatal. From the roof opposite there came a sudden yell of warning,
from directly below him a flash, and a bullet grazed his forehead and
shattered the window-pane above him. He was deluged with a shower of
broken glass. Stunned and bleeding, he sprang back.
With a cry of concern, Miss Dale ran toward him.
“It's nothing!” stammered Ford. “It only means I must waste no more
time.” He balanced his iron rod as he would a pikestaff, and aimed it at
the upper half of the door to the hall.
“When the next volley comes,” he said, “I'll smash the panel.”
With the bar raised high, his muscles on a strain, he stood alert
and poised, waiting for a shot from the room below to call forth an
answering volley from the house-tops. But no sound came from below. And
the sharp-shooters, waiting for the madmen to expose themselves, held
their fire.
Ford's muscles relaxed, and he lowered his weapon. He turned his eyes
inquiringly to the girl. “What's THIS mean?” he demanded. Unconsciously
his voice had again dropped to a whisper.
“They're short of ammunition,” said the girl, in a tone as low as his
own; “or they are coming HERE.”
With a peremptory gesture, Ford waved her toward the room adjoining and
then ran to the window.
The girl was leaning forward with her face close to the door. She held
the finger of one hand to her lips. With the other hand she beckoned.
Ford ran to her side.
“Some one is moving in the hall,” she whispered. “Perhaps they are
escaping by the roof? No,” she corrected herself. “They seem to be
running down the stairs again. Now they are coming back. Do you hear?”
she asked. “It sounds like some one running up and down the stairs. What
can it mean?”
From the direction of the staircase Ford heard a curious creaking sound
as of many light footsteps. He gave a cry of relief.
“The police!” he shouted jubilantly. “They've entered through the roof,
and they're going to attack in the rear. You're SAFE!” he cried.
He sprang away from the door and, with two swinging blows, smashed the
broad panel. And then, with a cry, he staggered backward. Full in
his face, through the break he had made, swept a hot wave of burning
cinders. Through the broken panel he saw the hall choked with smoke, the
steps of the staircase and the stair-rails wrapped in flame.
“The house is on fire!” he cried. “They've taken to the roof and set
fire to the stairs behind them!” With the full strength of his arms and
shoulders he struck and smashed the iron bar against the door. But the
bolts held, and through each fresh opening he made in the panels the
burning cinders, drawn by the draft from the windows, swept into the
room. From the street a mighty yell of consternation told them the fire
had been discovered. Miss Dale ran to the window, and the yell turned
to a great cry of warning. The air was rent with frantic voices. “Jump!”
cried some. “Go back!” entreated others. The fire chief ran into the
street directly below her and shouted at her through his hands. “Wait
for the life-net!” he commanded. “Wait for the ladders!”
“Ladders!” panted Ford. “Before they can get their engines through that
mob----”
Through the jagged opening in the door he thrust his arm and jerked
free the upper bolt. An instant later he had kicked the lower panel into
splinters and withdrawn the second bolt, and at last, under the savage
onslaught of his iron bar, the spring lock flew apart. The hall lay open
before him. On one side of it the burning staircase was a well of flame;
at his feet, the matting on the floor was burning fiercely. He raced
into the bedroom and returned instantly, carrying a blanket and a towel
dripping with water. He pressed the towel across the girl's mouth and
nostrils. “Hold it there!” he commanded. Blinded by the bandage, Miss
Dale could see nothing, but she felt herself suddenly wrapped in the
blanket and then lifted high in Ford's arms. She gave a cry of protest,
but the next instant he was running with her swiftly while the flames
from the stair-well scorched her hair. She was suddenly tumbled to her
feet, the towel and blanket snatched away, and she saw Ford hanging from
an iron ladder holding out his hand. She clasped it, and he drew her
after him, the flames and cinders pursuing and snatching hungrily.
But an instant later the cold night air smote her in the face, from
hundreds of hoarse throats a yell of welcome greeted her, and she found
herself on the roof, dazed and breathless, and free.
At the same moment the lifting fire-ladder reached the sill of the
third-story window, and a fireman, shielding his face from the flames,
peered into the blazing room. What he saw showed him there were no lives
to rescue. Stretched on the floor, with their clothing in cinders and
the flames licking at the flesh, were the bodies of the two murderers.
A bullet-hole in the forehead of each showed that self-destruction and
cremation had seemed a better choice than the gallows and a grave of
quick-lime.
On the roof above, two young people stood breathing heavily and happily,
staring incredulously into each other's eyes. Running toward them across
the roofs, stumbling and falling, were many blue-coated, helmeted angels
of peace and law and order.
“How can I tell you?” whispered the girl quickly. “How can I ever thank
you? And I was angry,” she exclaimed, with self-reproach. “I did not
understand you.” She gave a little sigh of content. “Now I think I do.”
He took her hand, and she did not seem to know that he held it.
“And,” she cried, in wonder, “I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME!”
The young man seemed to have lost his confidence. For a moment he was
silent. “The name's all right!” he said finally. His voice was still a
little shaken, a little tremulous. “I only hope you'll like it. It's got
to last you a long time!”