‘Come on, Mallet,’ La Touche called. ‘Don’t waste time. We must get out of this.’
Together they threw themselves on the door with all the weight of their shoulders. Again they tried, and again, but to no purpose. It was too strong.
‘What does it mean, do you think?’ panted Mallet.
‘Gas, I expect. Perhaps charcoal.’
‘Any use shouting at the window?’
‘None. It’s too closely shuttered, and it only opens into a courtyard.’
And then suddenly they perceived a faint odour which, in spite of their hardened nerves, turned their blood cold and set them working with ten times more furious energy at the door. It was a very slight smell of burning wood.
‘My God!’ cried Mallet, ‘he’s set the house on fire!’
It seemed impossible that any door could withstand so furious an onslaught. Had it opened outwards, hinges and lock must long since have given away, but the men could not make their strength tell. They worked till the sweat rolled in great drops down their foreheads. Meanwhile the smell increased. Smoke must be percolating into the room.
‘The torch here,’ cried La Touche suddenly.