"Good heaven and earth! you don't mean my theatre, do you?" and then two great horses, hurling a fire-engine around the corner into our street made swift and terrifying answer. With a piercing cry I caught up my cloak, and throwing off somebody's restraining hands I dashed down-stairs and into the street, racing like mad, giving sobbing cries, and utterly unconscious for over two blocks' space that my waist was unclosed and my naked throat and chest were bare to the wintry wind.
At the corner of the street at Sixth Avenue I wrung my hands in anguish, crying, "Oh, dear God! I knew it! I knew it!" for there, stalled in the snow, was the engine, so desperately needed a little further on! And as I resumed my run I said to myself: "What is it that has tried so hard to tell me—to warn me? Tried all the day—and I would not understand—and now it's too late!"
Why I ran I do not know—it was not curiosity. I felt, somehow, that if I could get there in time I might do something—God knows what! As I neared the theatre the crowd grew more dense, yet to my gasping: "Please, oh, please!" an answer came in a quick moving aside to let pass the woman with the white, tear-wet face. I broke through the cordon and was making for the stage-door, when a rough hand caught me by the shoulder. There was an oath, and I was fairly hurled back toward the safety line.
"Oh, let me alone!" I cried, "I want to go to my room! It will take me but a moment!"
Again the rough hand reached out for me, when a strange man threw his arm in front of me protectingly: "Take care what you're about!" he said. "Be a little gentle—she has a right close to the line, she's one of the company! Can't you see?"
"Oh," grunted the policeman, "well, I didn't know, and I couldn't let her kill herself!"
"No," said the stranger, "but you had no call to pitch her about as you did!" And just then a long, thin hand caught mine, and Mr. Daly's voice said: "Come here, child!" and he led me across the street and up some steps, and there, opposite the burning building, I could realize the madness of my act in trying to enter. The front of the building stood firm, but beyond it, within, all was seething flame. It was like some magnificent spectacular production—some Satanic pantomime and ballet, and every now and then a whirling flame, crowned with myriad sparks, sprang madly up into the very sky like some devilish première danseuse; while the lesser fiends joined hands and circled frenziedly below.
Mr. Daly never spoke a word. He had not released my fingers, and so we stood, hand in hand, watching silently over the torment of his beloved theatre—the destruction of his gathered treasures. I looked up at him. His face gleamed white in the firelight; his eyes were wide and strained; his fingers, icy cold, never lessened their clinching grasp on mine. Then came the warning cry firemen are apt to give when they know the roof is going. I had heard it often, and understood that and their retreating movement. Mr. Daly did not, and when, with a crackling crash, the whole roof fell into the roaring depths, his hand, his body, relaxed suddenly; a sort of sobbing groan escaped his pale lips. But when the column of glowing sparks flew high into the air he turned away with a shiver and gave not one other look at the destroyed building.
Not one word was spoken on the subject. Glancing down he noticed I had no rubbers on and that streams of water were running in the street:
"Go home, child!" he said, speaking quickly and most kindly. A crowd of reporters came up to him: "Yes," he said, "in one moment, gentlemen," then to me: "Hurry home, get something to eat—you could have had no dinner!"