She opened the door with a key and we softly passed in. At once I detected a faint odor of kerosene, but there was no light, no sound. Grace led me through the lower rooms, but there was no sign of fire, smoke, or firebug. We opened the cellar door and peered down into the blackness, and the cool, odorless air told us that he was not there with his oil. "Upstairs," she whispered. "Why not sing out?" I asked, in her ear. "It'll stop him." "Don't you see?" she answered. "I want to catch him in the act, to shock him, overwhelm him--and cure him." I acquiesced, and we climbed the stairs, making no noise and sensing more strongly as we went the rank smell of kerosene. She led me into the front room, the door of which stood open. All was dark, and there was no significant odor. "This is his room," she whispered. "He must be in mine, in the rear." We passed into the hall and peeped into this room. From a lighted house on the next street a faint illumination showed up every corner in it; and there in the middle, stooping low over his work, was George Morton, laying a trail of oil from the nozzle of a can, back and forth across the carpet. This done, he made a neat pile of newspapers against the wall, emptied the can upon it, and applied a match. A nudge from the girl started me and I walked in upon him. He uttered one snarling yell as he glared into my face, then sprang upon me. I was a strong, healthy man, large of frame, heavy, and well-trained in most forms of personal combat; but I soon realized that I was fighting a maniac. He writhed, twisted, and bent himself, forcing me again and again to change or renew my hold upon him. Even though I held him at arm's length, I could not retain my grip without help from the other hand, and then I would likely feel one or both of his feet on my chest. It was like wrestling with a panther. I shook him, and, flail-like, whirled him around me, but I could not conquer him without hurting him, and this I did not wish to do. As the fight resolved itself into a struggle of endurance, I heard a few broken words from Grace, barely distinguishable above the noise of the scuffle, and a later glance around told me that she was gone.