The blazing door was locked. Richard called, shouted shouted again. There was no answer, but in the extraordinary outer silence he could still hear the industrious shovelling of silver. ‘Well,’ he said to himself, ‘they’re bound to find out pretty soon that the show’s on fire.’ He threw himself against the door angrily, and, to his surprise, it yielded, and he fell over the river of flame into the interior of the shed. The noise at last startled Raphael and Teresa out of the preoccupation of their task. ‘Haven’t you perceived that the place is being burned down?’ he exclaimed drily. At the same instant he sprang towards Teresa. The stream of burning petrol had found its way into the central runnel of the stone floor, and so had suddenly reached the hem of Teresa’s dress, which already showed a small blaze. Fortunately, it was a serge travelling frock; had it been of light summer material, Teresa would probably have been burnt to death. Richard dragged her fiercely from the region of the runnel, and extinguished the smouldering serge between his hands, which showed the scars of that timely action for a fortnight afterwards. He glanced round quickly, saw a pile of empty sacks in a corner--had they been used as money-bags? he wondered--and, seizing several of them, laid them fiat on the burning petrol and against the door. His unhesitating celerity no doubt prevented a magnificent conflagration. The petrol, it is true, had nearly burnt itself out, but the woodwork of the door was, in fireman’s phrase, ‘well alight,’ and, being aged and rotten, it formed a quick fuel. When the flames had been conquered, the three occupants of the shed looked at each other without a word. Strange to say, under the steady gaze of Raphael Craig, Richard’s eyes blinked, and he glanced in another direction--up at the little window in the opposite wall where he had seen the face of Micky, but where the face of Micky was no longer on view. Then he looked again at Raphael Craig, whose dark orbs seemed to ask accusingly: ‘What are you doing here?’ And, despite the fact that he had in all probability been the means of saving Teresa’s life, he could not avoid the absurd sensation of having been caught in a misdeed. He felt as if he must explain his presence to Raphael Craig. At that juncture, we are obliged to confess, his imperturbability deserted him for a space. ‘I--I happened to be passing the end of the road,’ he said lamely, ‘and I saw what I took to be a flame, so I ran along--and found--this, I’m glad it’s no worse.’ ‘So am I,’ said Raphael Craig, with cold gravity. Teresa was silent. ‘I’m glad I was in time,’ said Richard, as awkwardly as a boy. ‘I’m glad you were,’ Mr. Craig agreed. ‘It is possible that my daughter owes her life to you. I cannot imagine how I could have been so careless with that petrol. It was inexcusable. We thank you, Mr. Redgrave, for your services so admirably rendered.’ ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Richard; ‘that’s nothing at all.’