Then a light glimmered above, on the landing. It was Jabez Tinker in his dressing gown. A candle was in his hand that he shaded from the upward current. "Thank God, yo're up," shouted Tom, bounding up the steps. "Dress yo', quick. Rouse the house. Bilberry's burst. Oh! hark yo'." Some building higher up the river had fallen with a groan into the stream and frantic cries rent the leaden skies mingling with the crash of stone and iron and stout timbers torn like mere sprigs. Suddenly from the well of darkness shone the gleam of a lanthorn. It was impossible to see who held it. Mr. Tinker cried out: "Who's that?" "It's me, Sergeant Ramsden," said a calm, stentorian voice. "Glad you're up, sir. Time to flit. Had to wade here. Where's Betty?" "I'm here, George; but yo' munnot think o' coming up till aw've med mysen some bit like." But the tramp of the sergeant was on the stairs already. His was a welcome presence. The hurry and agitation of the past hour had told on Tom. He felt sorely the need of help. Mr. Tinker seemed paralysed not so much from fear as the sudden waking from sleep to stand face to face with what perils none could tell. Betty clung to her constable, but he was probably used to being clung to for protection by the weaker sex. "Where's Peggy?" asked Tom. "Gone to Harrogate to fetch aunt home." It was Dorothy who spoke. She had partially dressed, but her long, curling, beautiful glossy hair fell like a veil upon her shoulders to her waist she was pale and anxious, but she retained a great measure of composure. She had drawn to her uncle's side but her eyes were on Tom. "Are we safe here?" asked Mr. Tinker. "Is there any chance of my being able to get across the yard to the office?" "Can't be done, sir," said the Sergeant, touching his high hat as well as he could with the hand that held the lanthorn. His other arm supported Betty. "The garden's three feet deep and more. Same in mill yard, no doubt, and rising every second; had to wade in. Glad to find window broken down." There was a sudden shriek from Betty. Through the door of the parlour that opened into the passage at the stair feet came a torrent of water nigh as high as the doorway itself. It flooded the passage, and, step by step, quicker than a man could mount them, scaled the staircase to the landing on which they stood. Small articles of furniture and ornaments were borne from the room, tossing and colliding as if in a grotesque dance. "Make for the attic," said Mr. Tinker, and led the way, followed by the women. Tom was hard upon them. The sergeant followed with an agile departure from his professional staidness, deliberation, and dignity of gait that only stress of circumstances constrained. If a withering glance could have arrested it the rapidly rising, gaining flood would have stayed its inroad.