Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends. There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet, sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness? Will Pauline Murray's love be only a green withe binding the Samson of these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the passageway, but is caught again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly. Some voice in the street shouts, "Fire!" Grandon with a free hand deals his adversary a blow, and the next instant he has the street door open. "What's wrong?" cries a voice. "Who is here?" And the man, a workman, though Grandon does not recognize him, rushes through in dismay, but his presence of mind saves worse disaster. The hose in the engine-room is speedily put in motion, and the hissing flames seem to explode. Grandon follows in a dazed manner. There are other steps, and an intense confusion like pandemonium prevails. One stentorian voice orders, and men go to work with the forces at hand. The dense smoke is enough to strangle them, but the waves of fire are beaten down. In a moment they rise again, and now it is a fight with them. Fortunately they can be taken singly, they have not had time to unite their overmastering forces. By the time the engines have reached the spot, the fire is pretty well conquered. They open the windows to let out the thick, black smoke. Every one questions, no one knows. "Wait until to-morrow," says Floyd Grandon, who looks like a swarthy Arab, he is so covered with grime. Farley, who is foreman of one department, and lives almost in the shadow of the building, who was first on the spot, is much puzzled. "There is something wrong about all this," he declares. "The fire broke out in four separate places. That was no accident!" The morning soon dawns. The smoke dissipates slowly, and they find the damage very small to what it might have been, but the signs of incendiarism are unmistakable. Grandon goes carefully through the place, searches every nook and corner, but discovers no trace of Wilmarth. Then he despatches a messenger for Eugene and the two gentlemen still at Grandon Park.