“The scoundrels!” and Jack, whipping out his knife, had the bonds severed in an instant. “His head’s all bloody,” he added, “an’ look how that rope’s cut his wrists! Good God! What kind o’ fiends—” But Mamie, with more self-control than he, laid a restraining hand upon his arm. “Don’t, dad,” she said. “Don’t think of that now. Time enough afterwards.” “You’re right,” and Jack mastered himself by a mighty effort. “We must get some water,” said Mamie, and then as she looked down at the white, bruised, unconscious face, a wave of misery swept over her, a suffocating sense of her own helplessness. “We must do something!” she cried wringing her hands in anguish. “We must—oh!—” She stopped suddenly, and pressed her hands against her wildly-beating heart, for Allan’s eyes slowly unclosed and he lay looking up at her. Then his face brightened into a smile, and an instant later twitched with the agony the slight movement cost him. His eyes were caught by the cloud of smoke drifting upward from the house, and his expression changed from agony to horror. “We must get the others,” he gasped, and tried to rise. “No, no,” protested Mamie, her arms about him. “Lie still—you must—” But Allan had fainted dead away. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XXII THE MYSTERY SOLVED THEY tell the story yet on the P. & O., and, indeed, everywhere that railroad men foregather—they tell it with shining eyes and fast-beating hearts—how Jack Welsh, grasping in an instant the meaning of Allan’s words, tied his handkerchief over mouth and nose, and fought his way inch by inch into that burning house, crawling on hands and knees with his face close to the floor where the smoke was thinnest—fought his way up the stairs and from room to room, until he found the one where five men lay, bound and senseless, on the floor; and they tell how he dragged them one by one to the open air, feeling the hot floor tremble under him toward the end, and himself falling unconscious beside the last man as he dropped him to the ground. They tell the story with the proud consciousness that this man was one of themselves, and that what he did was done in the way of duty, with no thought of fame or reward, without pausing to count the risk. But even this heroism might have been of small avail, had not Reddy Magraw at that instant come upon the scene. Let him tell the story, as he told it next day to Mrs. Welsh.