The men filed in from among the miscellaneous crowd, women and babies in the foreground. Stray boys, frantic to do something, were sent right and left to fetch spades and picks. The miscellaneous crowd was forced back from the gate, unwilling to the last; the gate opened and the men entered, at once calm and eager, men who had seen peril and faced death in their time. ‘I knowed that end of the house would come down some day,’ said one brawny navvy, looking up at the dilapidated wing. ‘I told the old gent as much when he employed me to fasten some loose slates on one of the outhouses, but he didn’t thank me for my warning. “It’ll last my time,” says he. Is it the old gent that’s under the rubbidge, sir?’ ‘Thank God, no. But there is a man there. Lose no time. There’s little hope of getting him out alive, but you can try your best.’ ‘That we will,’ cried several voices unanimously. The stray boys reappeared breathless, and handed in spades and picks through the half-open gate, which Lucius guarded. He didn’t want a useless crowd in the forecourt. ‘Now, lads, heave ahead!’ cried a stentorian voice, and the work began; a tedious labour, for the wreck of the old chimney made a mighty pile of ruin. The labour thus fairly started, Lucius went back to the old man’s room. He found Homer Sivewright sitting half-dressed upon his bed, staring at that gap in the opposite wall, shaken terribly, but calmer than he had hoped to find him. ‘Save him, Lucius,’ cried the old man, clasping Lucius’s hand. ‘He has been an ingrate—a villain. There was bad blood in him, a taint that poisoned his nature—hereditary falsehood. But save him from such a hideous fate. Is there any hope?’ Lucius shook his head. ‘None, I fear. The fall alone was enough to kill any man, and that crossbeam may have fallen upon him. There are half a dozen men clearing away the rubbish, but all we can hope to find is the dead body of your son. Better that he should perish thus than by the gallows.’ ‘Which must have been his inevitable doom, had he been permitted to finish his course,’ said the old man bitterly. Lucius helped to remove his patient to Lucille’s vacant chamber, and tried to calm his agitation—a vain effort; for though quiet enough outwardly, Mr. Sivewright suffered intensely during this interval of uncertainty. ‘Go down and see how they are getting on,’ he said eagerly. ‘They must have cleared all away by this time surely.’ ‘I’m going to look for a lantern or two,’ replied Lucius; ‘the night is as black as Erebus, and that strong wind makes the work slower.’ Mr. Sivewright told him where to find a couple of lanterns. ‘Go,’ he cried; ‘don’t waste time here with me. Rescue my son, if you can.’ His son still—by the mere force of habit, perhaps, although ten minutes ago his baffled murderer.