“Thanks,” said Northcote, placing it in the inner pocket of his overcoat.
At that moment a clerk from one of the upper stories came running down the stairs.
“The place is on fire,” he cried. “The top landing is so full of smoke you can’t go up to it.”
“I thought there was a smell of burning,” said Northcote. “I say, it must be my room!”
“If you are Mr. Northcote, it is certainly your room.”
The advocate turned round hastily, and proceeded to ascend the steep and rickety old stairs. He was turned back, however, as he had anticipated, by other clerks who were running down.
“The place is on fire,” they cried excitedly. “The smoke will choke you.”
XXXIX
WITHOUT FEAR AND WITHOUT STAIN
Northcote made no further show of resistance to the inevitable, but accompanied the excited clerks into Fleet Street. The window of his room abutting on to it had already attracted the notice of the crowd that thronged its pavements. By the time he had crossed to the other side of the road and had taken up his stand with the knot of spectators that was rapidly assembling at the end of a bystreet, the smoke had increased considerably in volume.
“Not much doubt about there being a fire,” was the verdict of those around him.