At that moment Philip, who had been working half a mile away, saving life and property with the strength of a young Hercules, was running towards the hotel. Amidst the excitement of rushing into the blazing stores, and pulling sleeping children and weak women out of the jaws of death, he had not thought of his own property, and did not know that it was on fire. Indeed, no man would have conceived it possible that the flames could have reached the hotel in so short a time. Now, Philip said to himself, he must get to his own place, and see what was best to be done. He was a little bit concerned about Margaret. "I must get her away from this," he thought. "When I see her in a place of safety, I can come back and do my work." But as he ran towards his hotel, the rumour ran from it that it was burning.
"The Silver Flagon's caught!" shouted the gold-diggers, one to another, and the news was carried along past Philip, who received it as he ran.
"Ah!" he muttered, with a great sigh, "there's an end to that. We are ruined men. Poor Mr. Hart, poor Mr. Hart! And I persuaded him to stop."
The thought that he himself was ruined scarcely disturbed him. Ruined How could he be ruined, when he had Margaret? His heart was almost light as he thought of his darling woman, but in the same moment his hair seemed to rise from his head with horror as he heard some one say:
"The Silver Flagon's down, and Mrs. Rowe's inside!"
"What what!" he muttered, dazed for a moment, and then he screamed:
"O my God!"
And, with a cry so terrible as to startle all who heard it, he plunged madly towards the spot where he had last seen his beloved.
He reached it, hot, black, panting, with his hair streaming to his shoulders, and his blue eyes gleaming wildly.
"Keep him back! Keep him back!" they shouted and laid hands on him.