little doctor was between them. "She's gone in there? You let her go in there—h'm?—h'm?—h'm?" he jerked out. "My God, my God"—he turned and began to run for the veranda.
Varge's face was set and white as chiselled marble.
"Which is her room?"—Martha, terrified, was whimpering now, and he spoke quietly, laying a hand on her arm.
She pointed to the blazing dormer window by the elm—and burst into tears.
It was a hundred yards to the house from where Varge stood, and the doctor was already two-thirds of the way there—Varge's hands closed down on the other's shoulders, halting him, as he sprang up the steps onto the veranda.
"I will go," he said, with quiet finality.
"You will do nothing of the sort!" snorted the little man, stamping and wriggling to free himself. "You're not fit to go into that again and—"
"I will go," repeated Varge evenly.
For the fraction of a second their eyes met—then he pushed the doctor gently away from him, and sprang through the open door.
Smoke, a thin, hazy, wavering, light-grey veil of it, shut down around him and stabbed at his eyes. A single glance he gave into the dismantled rooms on either side of the hallway—then dashed for the stairs. Heavier, denser here, as though accepting his challenge, a gust of strangling fumes rushed down to meet him, and for an instant checked him, stopped him, drove him back a step.
He tore his jacket from his back, held it over his nose
