“Well, I will risk it with them!” “We will not let you go. What would your father say?” “What would he say if I did not go?” Scarcely knowing what he was doing, Marcel seized hold of a hatchet, and rushed into the works. A violent biting sensation of heat seized him by the throat, but he did not halt. He mounted the staircase leading to the door of the book-keeping department. Here he was forced to stop. Before him was a wall of flames. Climbing higher, he came out on the roof, ran along a drain-pipe, entered the loft, which was filled with smoke, and, almost suffocated, reached that part of the building which lay above the offices. The fire had not reached them. He halted. If Cardez and Uncle Graff were in the book-keeping compartment they were surrounded on every side by the fire. Accordingly, they could only effect an escape either from above or below. Without the slightest hesitation he began to cut away at the floor. Suddenly he heard his name called from the roof. Without stopping he shouted back— “This way! In the loft!” It was the overseer and three of the workmen, who had followed with picks and levers. They set to work. Marcel, with his hatchet, seemed possessed of the strength of ten men; the beams appeared to fall away like reeds before the blows he dealt. Bricks and plaster were flying in all directions. At last a hole was made in the floor, and Marcel, lying flat on the ground, shouted with all his might— “Uncle Graff, Cardez, Baudoin—are you there?” A stifled voice replied— “Ah! This is you, Marcel. Yes, we are here. Be quick; we are almost exhausted. The smoke is suffocating us. We cannot open the window on account of the flames.” “Take care of yourselves!” Seizing the lever he gave a powerful lift, which considerably enlarged the hole. Then he saw the smoke rise as though by an escape-flue. There appeared in full view the three men, who had not let go their books and registers, stolidly awaiting deliverance or death. It was deliverance that came. A rope was lowered down the hole. “Baudoin, fasten my uncle firmly under the arms with this rope. Are you ready?” “Yes.” “Pull away, my men!” The rope, hoisted by impatient arms, was drawn up, and Uncle Graff, black with dirt and smoke, trembling, and scarcely able to breathe, though perfectly happy, was pressed in Marcel’s arms, whilst tears flowed down their cheeks, though not a word was uttered. Cardez and Baudoin were hoisted up in the same way. “By the way,” said Marcel, “is there anything else you want from the office? I will go down, if you like.” “No!” exclaimed Uncle Graff; finding his voice; “we have all the books we want. That is sufficient! The place is insured, so there is nothing more to do.” “Then we must beat a retreat at once,” exclaimed Marcel. “The smoke is getting denser here.”