“Hi, you, sir!” shouted Mr. Stott fiercely, “what in hell do you mean, sir!”
He stood in the centre of the road, brandishing his spade—the mud-guard of the car just missed him.
Mr. Stott turned and stared after.
“Disgusting—no lights!” he said.
But there were lights in Mayfield, white and red and yellow lights, that flickered up in long caressing tongues.
“Fire!” said Mr. Stott thickly.
He staggered up to the door of Mayfield and brought his spade down upon the narrow glass panel with a crash. Putting in his hand, he found the knob of the door and fell into the passage.
“Fire!” boomed Mr. Stott.
He had an idea that something ought to be done—a feeling that somebody should be rescued. The dining-room was blazing at the window end and by the light he saw an open door. Below was a glow of steady illumination.
“Anybody there?” shouted Mr. Stott.