“I say, though,” said his companion, with the growing excitement of his surroundings communicating itself to him, “this is going to be really awful. It has got down another story, and it is certainly in the hotel, and if they don’t look out it will be in the bank.” Although half a dozen engines had arrived by this time and the supply of water was copious, the fire had spread on all sides with such alarming rapidity that the liquid sheets that were flung upon it seemed only to increase the virulence of the flames. The surrounding buildings were all more or less decrepit, while the old inn itself had not the slightest resistance to offer to the flames. The whole of its quadrangular roof, most of which lay behind, appeared, as far as the onlookers could discern, by now to be involved. “There is something strange, fascinating, exhilarating,” said Northcote with a thrill of exaltation in his voice, “in witnessing a really great fire. The fire of London must have been the finest sight the world ever saw.” “You don’t appear to mind very much about your rooms, I must say,” said his companion. “If I were looking on at the destruction of my goods and chattels and the roof that protects my head, I don’t think I should be able to raise much enthusiasm for the spectacle.” “It will probably take half Fleet Street. What is my wretched little attic in comparison with that?” “Somehow in the circumstances I don’t think I could play the philosopher myself.” “It is all up with the hotel,” said Northcote. “It will be into a few of these newspaper offices before long. Conceive a holocaust that places the press of England in danger! Ha, ha, there goes the roof of my room!” “Why, that is where the fire began! You don’t mean to say the fire began in your room?” “Yes, that is where the fire began.” “No! How did it begin? Were you in it when it started?” “Yes, I was in it when it started.” “No!” “I started it myself.” “Did you overturn a lamp? Or did it begin in the chimney?”