“There’s a fire,” said Mr. Stott impressively.
“So I observe, quick!”
Stott unbuckled the strap and the man stood up.
“Get those papers—on the table,” said the strange man. “I can’t touch them, I’m handcuffed behind.”
The rescuer obeyed.
The passage was thick with smoke and suddenly all lights went out.
“Now run!” hissed Tab and Mr. Stott, still gripping his spade, groped forward. At the foot of the steps he paused. The heat was fierce, the flames were curling down over the top step.
“Whack the floor—the carpet with your spade and run—don’t worry about me!”
Mr. Stott made a wild rush up the stairs, striking more wildly at the floor. The smoke blinded him; he was scorched, he felt his few locks shrivel in the heat.
And then Tab Holland behind pushed him with his shoulder and it seemed to Mr. Stott that he was being thrown into the fiery furnace. He uttered one yell and leapt. In a fraction of a second he was in the passage—gasping and alive.