"She must have slipped out after she put Myra to bed. There's no hope for us, Dick. We must go as bravely as we can. But, my poor boy, I can't tell you how sorry I am that helping me has brought you to such a plight."
"But you forget, Mrs. Dexter. Central will send a policeman. He will find out what's wrong here and save us."
"Don't try to comfort me with false hopes, Dick. You and I both know that the policeman can't get here in time to save us."
This had, indeed, occurred to Dick some moments before, but he wanted to help Mrs. Dexter to keep her courage up as long as possible.
"Dick," called a subdued voice, "your mother taught you to pray?"
"Oh, yes, ma'am."
"Then you know how to pray now—the last chance you'll have."
"All right, then," young Prescott shot back to her, "and I'll keep on working while I pray!"
Mrs. Dexter did not speak again. The smoke, passing into the closet, had proved too much for her, and she had collapsed on the floor.
But Dick, naturally stronger, and with robust lungs, was still fighting bravely, though he was conscious that he was growing feebler and that air was harder to get.