Without pausing an instant in his rush, Bainbridge drew his revolver and fired twice in the air. Then he broke the stillness with a cry of fire from his powerful lungs—a cry which might almost have raised the dead.
The gates were wide open, and, as he raced through into the inclosure, he almost collided with a shadowy figure, bent over, and running with long, agile strides. The pistol was still in Bob’s hand, and, without a moment of hesitation, he sent it crashing square in the middle of the unknown’s forehead, dropping the fellow like a log.
“One good thing done, anyhow,” muttered Bainbridge, with a fierce kind of satisfaction.
He hesitated an instant, wondering whether to pause and make the fellow secure, or hurry on toward the burning building. Brief as had been the space since it first showed, the fire was beginning to break forth, illumining the sky, and making the mill seem almost like a flaming furnace within. There was little chance of accomplishing any good there, while it would be a pity if one of the undoubted criminals escaped.
He had made up his mind, and was searching through his pockets for something to bind the fellow with, when a scream rang out, so wild and full of agonized appeal that it chilled his blood. It came from the burning building, and in an instant Bob was running toward it with all his might.
He raced around a corner, peering through windows as he ran. The front half of the building was one glare of flaming crimson, in which no human being could live a minute. The man—it was the watchman, of course—must be in the rear.
He kept on around. Reaching another window, he smashed it with a piece of “edging” caught up from the ground, letting out a volume of smoke. With a bound he was inside, facing the glare which came from the billowing mass of fire.
“Tom!” he cried, shielding his face with one crooked arm. “Tom! Where are you?”
There was no answer. Crouching low and holding his breath, he hurried toward a portion of the mill which overlooked the river. Behind him the flames closed in with chuckling crackles like sentient things of murderous intent bent on cutting off his retreat.
“Tom!” he cried again. “Where are——”