He plunged into the room. The smoke filled his nostrils and choked him. His eyes burned. He staggered through the smoky dusk into another room. His hands met the brass bars of a bed—then closed over something soft and filmy that lay upon it. He seized the something close, and hurried back into the other room.
A fireman at another window sought to turn a stream of water on him. Water—on that gown!
"Cut that out, you fool!" Minot shouted. The fireman, who had suspected himself of saving a human life, looked hurt. Minot regained his window. Disheveled, smoky, but victorious, he half fell, half climbed, to the ground. The fire chief faced him.
"Who was you trying to rescue?" the chief demanded. His eyes grew wide. "You idiot," he roared, "they ain't nobody in that dress."
"Damn it, I know that," Minot cried.
He ran across the lawn and stood, a panting, limp, battered, ludicrous figure before Cynthia Meyrick.
"I—I hope it's the right one," he said, and held out the gown.
She took his offering, and came very close to him.
"I hate you!" she said in a low tone. "I hate you!"
"I—I was afraid you would," he muttered.