In an instant Dennis was lost in the smoke and flame.
One, two, three minutes passed. A fire-engine arrived; in a moment the hose was paid out to the river near by, and as a fireman seized the nozzle to train the water upon the building the roof fell in with a crash. At that instant Dennis stumbled out of the house, blind with smoke, his clothes aflame, carrying a man in his arms. A score of hands caught them, coats smothered Dennis’s burning clothes, and the man he had rescued was carried across the street and laid upon the pavement.
“Great glory, it’s Marchand! It’s Felix Marchand!” someone shouted.
“Is he dead?” asked another.
“Dead drunk,” was the comment of Osterhaut, who had helped to carry him across the street.
At that moment Ingolby appeared on the scene. “What’s all this?” he asked. Then he recognized Marchand. “He’s been playing with fire again,” he added sarcastically, and there was a look of contempt on his face.
As he said it, Dennis broke through the crowd and made for Marchand. Stooping over, he looked into Marchand’s face.
“Hell and damnation—you!” he growled. “I risked my life to save you!”
With a sudden access of rage his hand suddenly went to his hip-pocket, but another hand was quicker. It was that of Fleda Druse.
“No—no,” she said, her fingers on his wrist. “You have had your revenge. For the rest of his life he will have to bear his punishment—that you have saved him. Leave him alone. It was to be. It is fate.”