Dick sprang to the parlor door. Above he saw rolling smoke and a gleam of flames.
“The hotel is afire!” he cried.
“My brother!” screamed June. “He is up there in Room 42!”
“My son!” cried Mrs. Arlington, in horror, and swayed as if about to faint. “Oh, Heaven, my son! Save him!”
Dick waited to hear no more. Up the stairs he leaped. Guests were rushing downward through the smoke. One of them struck him and nearly knocked him down. They were screaming with fear. Pandemonium reigned in the hotel. Outside the fire-whistle set up a dull, awful call to the village firemen.
“Room 42!” muttered Dick. The smoke got into his mouth and nose and nearly choked him.
A kerosene-lamp had exploded, and the fire was spreading with appalling swiftness. It was on the second floor, and Dick knew Room 42 was on the third. The fire might cut him off, but he did not hesitate to rush up the second flight of stairs, down which a screaming woman and two cursing men tumbled recklessly.
“Room 42!” he thought. “I believe I know where it is.”
There was a light in the corridor, but the upward rolling smoke made it impossible to see the numbers on the doors. He reached the front of the house and flung a door open. In the middle of the room, attired in a nightdress, stood Chester Arlington, weak and trembling.
“What is it?” he asked. “Is the hotel afire?”