“They'll have to”—laconically. “That top story may go at any minute. It would collapse like a pack of cards if another bomb fell near enough for us to feel the concussion. And young Durward would have about as much chance as a rat in a trap.”
A silence descended on the little group of anxious people as he finished speaking. The gravity of Tim's position suddenly revealed itself—and the danger involved by an attempt at rescue.
Sara drew close to Garth's side.
“Must you go, Garth?” she asked. “Wouldn't it be safe to wait till help comes?”
“Tim isn't safe there, actually five minutes. The floors may hold—or they mayn't! I must go, sweet.”
She caught his hand and held it an instant against her cheek. Then—
“Go, dear,” she whispered. “Go quickly. And oh!—God keep you!”
He was gone, picking his way gingerly, treading as lightly as a cat, so that the wrenched stairway hardly creaked beneath his swift, lithe steps.
Once there came the sudden rattle of some falling scrap of broken plaster, and Sara, leaning with closed eyes and white, set face, against the framework of a doorway, shivered soundlessly.
Soon he had disappeared round the distorted head of the staircase, and those who were watching could only discern the bobbing glimmer of the light he carried mounting higher and higher.