He walked heavily, rose and walked with long strides into the hall. Eline scenting action, followed. Her strides were not so long, but longer than she expected. Mr. Stott was standing on the doorstep, his hands on his hip, his legs apart, and he was looking disparagingly at Mayfield. “Come any more of your tricks--and look out!” he challenged. “You’ll find a Stott--” Eline clutched his arm frenziedly. “Oh sir--there’s somebody there!” Undoubtedly there was somebody there; a light was showing in the front room, a red and uncertain light. And then a door closed loudly. “Somebody there--?” Mr. Stott strode down the steps furiously. Even when he strode down a step that wasn’t there, he did not lose his poise. “Somebody there--?” He remembered mistily that the gardener had a lazy habit of leaving his spade beneath the trimmed hedge that marked the boundaries of his property. “You’ll catch your death of cold, dear,” wailed Eline outrageously. But Mr. Stott neither observed the uncalled-for endearment, nor the rain that soaked him, nor the wind that flapped his dressing-gown loose. He groped for the spade and found it, just as a car came smashing through the frail gate of Mayfield. “Hi, you, sir!” shouted Mr. Stott fiercely, “what in hell do you mean, sir!” He stood in the centre of the road, brandishing his spade--the mud-guard of the car just missed him. Mr. Stott turned and stared after. “Disgusting--no lights!” he said. But there were lights in Mayfield, white and red and yellow lights, that flickered up in long caressing tongues. “Fire!” said Mr. Stott thickly. He staggered up to the door of Mayfield and brought his spade down upon the narrow glass panel with a crash. Putting in his hand, he found the knob of the door and fell into the passage. “Fire!” boomed Mr. Stott. He had an idea that something ought to be done--a feeling that somebody should be rescued. The dining-room was blazing at the window end and by the light he saw an open door. Below was a glow of steady illumination. “Anybody there?” shouted Mr. Stott. And then a shiver ran down his spine for a distant voice called: “Here!” “Fire!” yelled Mr. Stott, and stumbled down the steps. The voice came from a door. “Wait, I’ll kick out the key.”... There was a sound of metallic scraping and something hit the brick-work at his feet. Mr. Stott frowned at it. A key. “Open the door,” said the voice urgently. Mr. Stott stooped and picked it up, made three shots at the keyhole and at last got it. A man doubled up as if in pain, shuffled out. “Unfasten the strap,” he commanded. “There’s a fire,” said Mr. Stott impressively. “So I observe, quick!” Stott unbuckled the strap and the man stood up. “Get those papers--on the table,” said the strange man. “I can’t touch them, I’m handcuffed behind.” The rescuer obeyed. The passage was thick with smoke and suddenly all lights went out.