With a look of fright she pressed him in her arms, and held him back. “Darling, I must go. What would they think of me? I will return to-night. Let me go now.” “Very well. But Milona will follow you, and bring me back the news. Promise me you will be very careful.” A final kiss, and he was already in the garden. Anetta turned to the servant and handed to her the note she had just written. “Run to Ars. On the river, in a boat, you will see Hans, dressed like a peasant. Give him this paper, and return at once. Go, Milo! This time we shall succeed.” “And the young man, madame—what will you do with him?” A look of anxiety came over her brow. “I cannot tell yet, Milo. I believe I love him.” The servant smiled faintly as she said— “Poor fellow! What a pity!” And, without another word, she disappeared. Marcel was running towards the works. At the first turn of the road the whole town lay before his eyes. From the Supply Stores a lofty column of black smoke mounted towards the sky, and flames were beginning to break through the roof. “Ah, the wretches!” exclaimed the young man. “They have set the place on fire! And Uncle Graff? _Mon Dieu_! if only he is safe and sound!” Young and vigorous, spurred on by fear and anger, he ran along faster than ever. A mass of onlookers was standing in the street, kept in check by the police. Marcel rushed through them like a bullet and entered the yard, perspiring and out of breath. Workmen were manipulating the fire-engine belonging to the works. On seeing their master’s son arrive they exclaimed eagerly— “Ah, M. Marcel! You have come at last!” “How did the fire happen?” exclaimed the young man panting for breath. No one replied. They were two hundred; he was alone. All the same he exclaimed, in angry tones— “So it is you, rascals, you who have set fire to the works which afforded you your only means of livelihood?” They protested noisily. “No, M. Marcel, we did not do it! We set forth our demands, but we did not enforce them by such villainous means. There are strangers about. We had nothing to do with it.” “Where is my uncle Graff?” Terror-stricken, a foreman advanced— “Ah, M. Marcel, we could not prevent him entering.” “Entering where?” “Into the managing department, with M. Cardez and your servant. They wanted to find the account books, etc.” “But the managing department is on fire!” shrieked the young man, in despair. “If you could not prevent them going, you might at least have accompanied them.” A crash was now heard coming from the burning building. Millions of sparks shot forth into the air, and a black dust filled the sky. It was the roof of the stores, which had fallen in. “How can we reach them now?” said the overseer, anxiously. “They are caught between the weaving department and the stores. The fire is all over the place now.” “By the roof.” The workman shook his head discouragingly. “Who will dare to go?” “I will!” “But it means death!”