The hero had emerged from the building again with another drooping white form clasped to his breast. And the eager crowd saw that this one was a very young girl, with dark, flowing curls and of wonderful beauty. In a few more minutes the roof fell in on the doomed house. The papers next day chronicled the distressing facts that three servants had perished in the fire. It was added that Mrs. Vale and her daughter had only been saved by unexampled heroism. CHAPTER XXV. ITALY’S CLUE. The next day found Mrs. Vale and Italy tenderly cared for at the home of good Mrs. Mays. Professor Doepkin had called a carriage and taken them there the night before, commending them to the care of the good landlady and beautiful Mrs. Severn, the sad-faced young widow. Mrs. Vale was confined to her bed from the effects of severe nervous shock. Italy was up and about, although very pale and grave-looking, with the memory of last night. It seemed like a dream to her, the way she had awakened last night in the blinding smoke and glare, with the crackling of the flames in her ears, and the loud shouts of the excited throng outside blending with the pandemonium of noise. She would never forget those few moments of awful anguish when she had realized the horror of her position, and, knowing herself caught like a rat in a trap, felt that escape was impossible, that she must die this awful death by fire. Then suddenly the door had been wrenched apart, and through the stifling smoke rang a familiar voice: “Italy! Italy! Are you here? Speak!” With a cry of joy, she moved toward the welcome voice, and through the awful heat and blinding smoke reached his arms that clutched her eagerly. “Be brave. Fear nothing, for I will save you,” he cried, as he clasped her close, and a mighty flood of joy rolled over her even in the horror of the position. Then a sudden terror drove the blood coldly back upon her heart. “Mama!” she shrieked. “Is safe. I carried her out to the street ten minutes ago,” replied her rescuer, as he toiled through the corridor, and, reaching the stairway, began the descent, holding the blanket carefully over her head that not one hair of those dark, shining tresses should be scorched by the leaping flames that put out tongues of fire at them as they passed. At last--after an eternity it seemed--he bore her into the street, and the fresh, cold air blew into her face like a breath from heaven. She was safe, and not one hair of her head was harmed--safe, and there was her mother, too. Both owed their lives to this noble hero. He with his face and hands almost blistered by the heat he had defied, his fair, curly beard and hair singed by the fire, had disappeared from sight as soon as he had put them in the care of Mrs. Mays, and the afternoon of another day had come, still he was missing. Italy left her mother asleep and stole down to the parlor. It was just after luncheon.