“Now run!” hissed Tab and Mr. Stott, still gripping his spade, groped forward. At the foot of the steps he paused. The heat was fierce, the flames were curling down over the top step. “Whack the floor--the carpet with your spade and run--don’t worry about me!” Mr. Stott made a wild rush up the stairs, striking more wildly at the floor. The smoke blinded him; he was scorched, he felt his few locks shrivel in the heat. And then Tab Holland behind pushed him with his shoulder and it seemed to Mr. Stott that he was being thrown into the fiery furnace. He uttered one yell and leapt. In a fraction of a second he was in the passage--gasping and alive. “Outside...!” Tab thrust his shoulder again at the dazed man and Mr. Stott walked out into the rain just as the first fire engine came clanging into the street. “There _is_ a fire,” said Mr. Stott with satisfaction. “Come and have a drink.” Tab wanted something more than a drink. He saw a running policeman and hailed him. “Officer, can you unlock these handcuffs? I’m Holland of the ‘Megaphone’. Good business!” A turn of the key and he was free. He stretched his aching arms. “Com’n have a drink,” urged Mr. Stott, and Tab thought that the suggestion was not altogether foolish. They came to Mr. Stott’s dining-room to find Eline singing in a high falsetto voice, a voice which had aroused even Mrs. Stott, for that good lady, in dishabille, was regarding the musical Eline with wonder and shame when they arrived. The good lady staggered at the appearance of her husband. Tab seemed a less notable phenomenon--even the vocal Eline faded from the picture. “What is the meaning of this?” she asked tearfully. “There’s been a fire,” murmured her husband. He glared at Eline fiendishly and pointed to the door. “Shut up, girl! Go to bed! You’re fired--you’re the secon’ fire tonight!” He was so overcome by his witticism that he relapsed into what promised to be continuous laughter. The clang of another engine arrested his merriment, and he stalked out of the house. “I don’t think Mr. Stott is quite well,” said Mrs. Stott in a tremulous voice. “I--be quiet, Eline! Singing sacred songs at this hour of the morning!” And then came Mr. Stott in a hurry, and behind him, Carver. “Thank God, my boy--I never expected--!” Carver found a difficulty in speaking. “I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott loudly. His face was black, what of his dressing-gown was not singed, was sodden. He flourished the spade. “I rescued ’m,” said Mr. Stott with dignity. “We Stotts come of a hard bit’n race. My father was a firem’n--he rescued thousan’s from burnin’.” Here he was getting near to the truth, for, as had been before remarked, Mr. Stott’s father was a Baptist minister. XXXVI “We must warn Miss Ardfern at once. I have been on the telephone with her this evening. I was enquiring about you, and the chances are that I so thoroughly alarmed her, that she is awake. I only hope to God she is,” said Carver.