“It’s hopeless!” gasped Brett. “No man can live in that fiery furnace.”
Douglas groaned aloud. He had been shocked beyond measure by the discovery of Thornton’s guilt and treachery, for he had liked him, and had accepted his hospitality. It was horrible to see him meet such a fate. Better the electric chair than being roasted alive.
“Perhaps he jumped from the car before it turned turtle,” he suggested.
“It’s hardly likely,” exclaimed Brett dubiously. “Still, we might look along the road. We can do no good over there.” He shuddered slightly as he turned to look at the still burning car. The steel and metal work had been twisted into grotesque shapes by the great heat, which added to the ghastly picture.
Their search along the roadside was fruitless, and Douglas and Brett returned to the Secretary of State’s limousine. They had to wait some time before the flames about the remains of Thornton’s car died down into a smoldering mass. After the fire had burned itself out, Brett, with the assistance of horror-stricken spectators among the crowd that had collected with the Aladdin-like magic which characterizes street gatherings, examined the ground with minute care. Suddenly he moved over to where Douglas was standing, keeping back the curious crowd, and beckoned him to one side.
“Colonel Thornton did not jump from the car, Mr. Hunter,” he said gravely. “We’ve just found all that’s left of him—his ashes.”