The heat is growing unbearable, and yet the ladder is not in position. He realizes that the case is desperate, and casts about for a chance to lessen it. The woman lies there groaning. They are dragging the ladder up the roof, and in a couple of minutes it will be in place, but that time is an eternity under such conditions. Just now, to remain means death. He sees one chance, takes the woman--she is a slight creature--in his arms, slips over the edge of the roof, and with feet braced on a ledge, exerts his whole strength to maintain his position, while the encouraging shouts of the firemen below give him hope. It is a picture for an artist--the race between life and death, between the greedy flames and the uplifting ladder, but the ladder wins. CHAPTER XIV. THE MAN OF THE WORLD. When the man who hangs there with such a weight upon his left arm feels that he cannot endure the strain five seconds longer, a voice shouts out just at his feet: “Drop her down to me!” Brawny arms are outstretched, and the woman, falling from his nerveless clasp, is caught and held. Now that he can change his position Wycherley is not so hard set, and manages without assistance to lower himself. It has been an exceedingly narrow escape, for hardly has he reached the lower roof when, looking up, he beholds the greedy tongues of fire crawling over the edge at the very point where he held on with such grim resolution. A scuttle has been torn open, and through this the woman has been taken. Wycherley would linger, but the firemen tell him nothing can save this house from sharing the fate of its neighbor, and that he had better lose no time in making good his escape. So he, too, crawls through the scuttle. Even in such dire distress and under such peculiarly unromantic conditions his sense of humor does not desert him, and he chuckles more than once while making his way to the street. When tenements burn there are sad enough sights, Heaven knows, but at the same time many comical ones crop up, for people in the mad excitement may be seen hugging feather beds, while tossing pictures, mirrors, and every fragile object out of the window. Hardly has he reached the street than someone near by says: “There he is.” Immediately hands are laid upon his arm, and turning he beholds a woman. “God bless you, sir. You saved my life. I cannot find words to thank you,” she says, between her hysterical sobs. “Then don’t worry about trying. What I did wasn’t much,” is his characteristic answer. “Oh, sir! my life is not of much value to me, but to another it may be. Tell me your name--where I can find you after I have seen him.” He notes curious glances cast upon them, and desires to break away. “A letter to Claude Wycherley at the Sherman House would reach me. But I beg of you to forget all about it,” he adds.