After a moment, he softly opens the iron shutters and vaults out. Some rubbish stands in the corner of the yard; it looked unsightly to him yesterday, but he is thankful now, and scrambles on the unsteady pile until he can spring up to the top of the high street fence and let himself drop on the other side. How odd that the dog should not hear. There is a long ray of light flashing out of a window. Something is wrong.
He lets himself in at the main entrance again. There is a smothering smell, a smoke, a glare. He rushes to the engine-room, but it is up-stairs as well, everywhere, it seems, and he flies to the alarm bell.
Some stalwart grip seizes him from behind and throws him, but he is up in a flash. Ah, now he knows his enemy! He makes a frantic endeavor to reach the rope, and the other keeps him away. Neither speak, but the struggle is deadly, for the one has everything at stake, honor, standing, all that enables a man to face the world, and a revenge that would be so sweet. To-morrow the last business of the transfer is to be completed, to-night's loss will fall on the Grandon family.
Neither speak. The man who has been detected in a crime fights desperately; the life of his more fortunate rival is as nothing to him. If the place burns and Grandon's dead body is found there, who is to know the secret covered up? If his dead body is not there, it is disgrace and ruin for his enemy, and he will struggle with all the mastery of soul and body, with all the inspiration, of revenge, of safety to himself.
Grandon is strong, supple, and has a sinewy litheness, beside his height. His antagonist has the solidity of a rock, and though his body is much shorter, his arms are Briarius-like, everywhere, and more than once Grandon is lifted from his feet. It seems as if the awful struggle went on for hours while the fire is creeping stealthily about with its long blue and scarlet tongues. He hears a crackling up-stairs, it grows lurid within, and he remembers stories of men struggling with fiends. There floats over his sight the image of Irene Lepelletier; of Violet, sweet and sad-eyed. Will it be too late for her to go to happiness? Will Pauline Murray's love be only a green withe binding the Samson of these modern days. One more desperate encounter, and Wilmarth comes down with a thud. He seizes the rope and rings such peals that all Westbrook starts. Then he runs through the passageway, but is caught again. Whatever Wilmarth does he must do quickly.
Some voice in the street shouts, "Fire!" Grandon with a free hand deals his adversary a blow, and the next instant he has the street door open.
"What's wrong?" cries a voice. "Who is here?" And the man, a workman, though Grandon does not recognize him, rushes through in dismay, but his presence of mind saves worse disaster. The hose in the engine-room is speedily put in motion, and the hissing flames seem to explode.
Grandon follows in a dazed manner. There are other steps, and an intense confusion like pandemonium prevails. One stentorian voice orders, and men go to work with the forces at hand. The dense smoke is enough to strangle them, but the waves of fire are beaten down. In a moment they rise again, and now it is a fight with them. Fortunately they can be taken singly, they have not had time to unite their overmastering forces.
By the time the engines have reached the spot, the fire is pretty well conquered. They open the windows to let out the thick, black smoke. Every one questions, no one knows.
"Wait until to-morrow," says Floyd Grandon, who looks like a swarthy Arab, he is so covered with grime.