A hissing sound filled the room.
Cora screamed.
The sharp point of the poker sank into the plaster, and a large part of the ceiling came down with a crash. George was choked with fine white dust, and almost blinded. He went on hacking at the ceiling, tearing at the wooden laths with his hands.
A strong smell of gas filled the room. So that was what they were up to, he thought, not pausing in his efforts to make a hole in the ceiling. Well, they were too late. The window was open, and it would not he possible to build up a strong enough concentration of gas to suffocate them. But suppose they set the place on fire? It’d go up like a powder barrel!
He worked for a few seconds like a madman. Voices sounded in the alley. They had left the garage. Any moment they might set fire to the place. The hole was big enough to get through now. He shouted to Cora, but she just sat on the divan, coughing and wringing her hands.
He jumped off the table and grabbed hold of her. She resisted weakly, but somehow he got her on the table.
“Through the hole,” he gasped, “it’s our only chance.”
He caught hold of the hack of her slacks and hoisted her up. She clutched at the torn edges of the hole and he bundled her through. Then he hoisted himself up.
They crouched between the plaster and the tiles. He smashed at the tiles with the poker, and a moment later he saw, through the hole he had made, the cloudless sky and the bright moon floating serenely above them.
“Up,” he panted, grabbing Cora round the waist, and he shoved her onto the roof which sloped gently to the flat roof of the next building. He followed, and together they slithered down the warm tiles, ran across the flat roof, dodged round a chimney-stack and paused at the foot of the next sloping roof. Then suddenly a huge yellow flame shot into the air, followed by a violent rush of air and a tremendous bang. The blast tossed them against the roof. A great wave of black smoke engulfed them: the sound of flames and crackling wood roared up in the night.