The wind lulled for a moment as they stepped outside. The glow of Kingsnorth’s light brought recollection back to Charlotte.
“But why hasn’t Mr. Kingsnorth come to us?” she cried. “He promised.”
Mrs. Mac lifted an accusing finger. “He promised,” she said bitterly. “What do a boozer’s promises amount to? He’s there now sodden with drink—not Christian drink, but them French liqueurs. And our men that ought to be here, God help ‘em!”
The wind came back at that moment so violently that it knocked them over. They lay gasping on their faces, but they heard the roar of falling timbers behind them.
“My home!” Charlotte peered through the darkness, but could not see.
“Or mine! Well, we’ve got to get Kingsnorth out. His will go down with him in it.”
They struggled on—it seemed an interminable time—to Kingsnorth’s piazza. They realized instantly from its groanings and swayings that the house was in immediate danger.
“The door is locked,” said Charlotte. “We can’t make him hear in this rage.”
Mrs. Mac took Mac’s big .45, deftly unloaded it, and slipped the cartridges into the pocket of her mackintosh. With the heavy butt she struck two or three blows on the lattice work of Kingsnorth’s shell windows. The opening made was large enough to admit her hand. She slipped up the wooden latch which falls into place when a Filipino sliding window is drawn to, and opened a casement. The lamp was burning brightly on a table, and Kingsnorth, aroused by the noise and Mrs. Maclaughlin’s repeated calls, was rubbing his eyes and staring dully at their faces in the aperture.
“Are you mad?” said Mrs. Maclaughlin sharply. “Come out of here. This house will go down in a minute.”