Stuart felt his breath coming back; but he seemed incapable of motion. Behind him was the surging roar of the fire. A falling piece of wood landed blazing beside him.
But, again, the other man was equal to the task. Recovered from his furious fight through the smoke-filled house, he rose to his feet and lifted Stuart with him.
He lifted off the wet coats. Stuart saw the other man's face for the first time. Harry Vincent was the rescuer: but Stuart had never met him. He only knew that this brave chap had come in the nick of time. A few more minutes would have meant the doom of Stuart Bruxton.
"Come along," said Harry, "we've got to move!"
The warning was a timely one. The house, with flames sweeping from all corners, had become a menace at this close range. Burning beams were shooting outward and landing about it. Stuart limped along the driveway, by Harry's side. His companion noticed his difficulty, and gave him support on the left. They reached the road and turned toward the bridge. Stuart, trudging mechanically, never looked for the wreck of his car.
Harry was carrying the coats. He felt in the pocket of his own and produced a flashlight.
It was necessary, here along the ground, although the cloudy sky above was lighted with the glare of the burning house.
The light pointed out the fallen portion of the bridge — a section which extended downward from the nearest pier.
"Somebody got over by a rope, I think," said Harry. "I saw the end of it tied to the bridge.
We'll have to scramble for it — the way I came over. It's about twenty-five feet, but the water's hardly over your head here."