She hurried faster and came nearer the office window. Under it was another window with a broken pane, from which hung something she instantly divined as the fuse.
Yes. A fiery spark crept closer and closer to the wall.
By the time she reached the window it was out of her reach.
Oh, God! could she do nothing?
She had been sewing on some dainty trifle earlier in the evening, and a pair of small scissors still hung at her waist.
Closer drew the spark of fire to the broken window pane, whence it would disappear to work its fearful errand. It seemed to twinkle and mock at her in fiendish delight. She grasped the jutting window-frame and jumped upon the broad sill.
Thank God, she had it at last. One snip of her scissors, and the spark of fire dropped harmlessly to the ground. She turned slightly to step off the window-ledge. Her foot slipped and she fell, a white, faint heap upon the ground.
VI.
When she opened her eyes again, not only Otis Greenough but John Villard and an office-boy were bending anxiously over her.
“My dear girl,” the agent was saying, “bless me, my dear, what is it? How came you here and who has harmed you?”