He smiled at himself in the dark. His sense of humor had always saved him from conceit. Yet he toyed with the idea—to play the hero for Hildegarde!
There is a school of thought which contends that catastrophe is created by anticipation of it. There are, too, the amazing facts of coincidence. However that may be, whichever it was, the thing happened! The moving picture house caught fire that night. Crossed wires were, it was learned afterward, responsible.
Hildegarde was the first to realize that something was wrong. There was a thickening of the atmosphere, a veil-like haze that blurred the screen, the thin, crisp smell of smoke!
Somebody's cigarette? That was it, of course. She settled herself back in her chair. How silly—to be afraid—she was such a coward. . . .
But it was not silly. Fire was there—a spurt of flame in a corner; the strange, loud sound of startled voices; a mass of ominous figures rising in the dark.
And then Meriweather's sharp, "We must get out of this, Hildegarde."
His hand was on her arm. But she wrenched herself away.
"Take Sally. You must. I'll be all right."
Winslow was speaking! "Sit still, all of you; it's the safest."
But she wouldn't sit still. She was desperately afraid. She found herself running along the open aisle. Then a wave of humanity closed about her—everybody was fighting to reach the doors ahead . . . squeezing the breath out of her. She, too, fought
