. . . straining toward the moonlighted world outside . . . the safe, moonlighted world. . . .
Some one fell down in front of her . . . some one else was falling. . . .
She stumbled, was dragged up by a strong arm, and heard a great voice rumbling, "It's Carew's daughter."
After that she fainted.
When she came to herself, she was out under the wide, white sky, and old Christopher was bending over her.
"Are you all right? I was just behind you and saw you fall."
"Where are the others?"
"I'll look for them. But I must get you out of this."
His car was not far away, and he carried her to it.
After he left her, she watched the excited crowd pouring down the street. Engines were coming! Men were shouting! Women screaming. Bedlam . . . !
Christopher returned with news. The fire was out. There had, indeed, been little fire. The panic had been the worst. He had found Hildegarde's friends. Two of them were hurt, Mr. Meriweather and Miss Hulburt. Not badly, but a doctor was looking after them, and they would come on at once to the inn in Mr. Winslow's car.
"You can't do any good," Christopher stated, when Hildegarde insisted she must go to them. "They'll follow us, and I'll get there first and have things ready."
It seemed heavenly to Hildegarde to come into the safe haven of the firelighted inn, with Columbus purring serenely on the hearth.
