He witnessed in the next few minutes a strange scene of confusion, of hurrying and scurrying hither and thither. Where there had been almost pitch darkness, was now a glittering, brilliant bath of light, in which the figures of men and women, moving swiftly to and fro, appeared like animated silhouettes. But even as he stared before him at the extraordinary Hogarthian vision, the roadway and the pavements of the Strand became strangely and suddenly deserted, while he began to hear the hoot, hoot of the fire-engines galloping to the scene of the disaster. Before him the line of police and of special constables remained unbroken, and barred his further progress.
"I don't want to go past the theater," he whispered urgently. "I only want to get to Bow Street, as quickly as possible, on a very important matter." He slipped the half-crown he had meant to give the waif he had taken Kitty to be, into a policeman's hand, and though the man shook his head he let him through.
Sherston shot down the Strand, to his left. Almost filling up the steep, lane-like street which leads down to the Savoy Hotel, were rows of ambulances, groups of nurses, and Red Cross men, and absorbed though he was once more in his own sensations, and the thought of the terrible ordeal that lay in front of him, Sherston yet found himself admiring the quickness with which they had been rushed hither.
On he went, and crossed the empty roadway. How strange that so little attention was being paid to the fire! Instead of a hurrying mob of men and women, the Strand was now extraordinarily empty, both of people and of vehicles, and now and again he could hear the sound of knocking, of urgent knocking, as if some one who has been locked out, and is determined to be let in.
He strode quickly along, feeling his way somewhat, for apart from the reflection of the red sky, it was pitch dark in the side streets, and soon he stood before the Police Station. The big old-fashioned building was just within the outer circle of light cast by the huge fire whose fierceness seemed to increase rather than diminish, and Sherston suddenly espied an Inspector standing half in the open door. "I've some very urgent business," he said hurriedly. "Could you come inside for a moment, and take down a statement?"
"What's your business about?" said the man sharply, and in the wavering light Sherston thought his face looked oddly distraught and pale.
"There's a woman lying dead at No. 19 Peter the Great Terrace," began Sherston curtly—
The man bent forward. "There's many women already lying dead about here, sir, and likely to be more—babies and children too—before we're through with this hellish business!" he said grimly. "If she's dead, poor thing, we can do nothing for her. But if you think there's any life left in her—well, you'll find plenty of ambulances, as well as doctors and nurses, down Strand way. But if I was you, I'd wait a bit before going back. They're still about—" and even as he uttered the word "about" he started back into the shelter of the building, pulling Sherston roughly in with him as he did so, and there came a loud, dull report, curiously analogous to that which a quarter of an hour ago—it seemed hours rather than minutes—Sherston had taken for the bursting of a motor tire. But this time the sound was at once followed by that of shattered glass, and of falling masonry.
"Good God!" he cried. "What's that?"
"A goodish lot of damage this time, I should think," said the Inspector thoughtfully. "Though they're doing wonderfully little considering how they—"