"Yes! The top floors is mostly burnt out. You can't get a wehicle near it."
"Were any lives lost?" said Janet. The Brands lived on one of the upper floors.
"No, miss," said a policeman, approaching, urbane, helpful, not averse to imparting information.
Janet explained that she was on her way to stay in the Mansions, and the policeman, who said that other "parties" had already arrived with the same object but could not be taken in, advised her to turn back and go with her luggage to one of the private hotels in Sloane Street, until she could, as he expressed it, "turn round."
Janet did as she was bid, and half an hour later made her way on foot through the crowd to the entrance of Lowndes Mansions.
The hall porter recognised her, for she had frequently stayed with the Brands, and Janet's face was not quickly forgotten. He bade the policeman who barred the entrance let her pass.
The central hall, with its Oriental hangings and sham palms, was crowded with people. Idle, demoralized housemaids belonging to the upper floors, whose sphere of work was gone, stood together in whispering groups watching the spectacle. Grave men in high hats and over-long buttoned-up frock-coats greeted each other silently, and then produced passes which admitted them to the jealously guarded iron staircase. The other staircase was burnt out at the top, though from the hall it showed no trace of anything but of the water which yesterday had flowed down it in waves, and which still oozed from the heavy pile stair-carpet, which the salvage men were beginning to take up.
The hall porter and the unemployed lift man stood together, silent, stupefied, broken with fatigue, worn out with answering questions.
"Are Mr and Mrs Brand all right?" gasped Janet, thrilled by the magnitude of the unseen disaster above, which seemed to strike roots of horror down to the basement.