A door was burst open on his right and a girl rushed forth, wild with excitement.
“Oh, Howard!” she cried. “I’m so thankful you are here! Quick! Quick! My father!”
Then, in the gloom and lurid glare of the fire, she found she was talking to a stranger, and she hesitated to say more.
But Nick Carter quickly reassured her, and his cheery tones acted like a stimulant, as he called out:
“Don’t be afraid, and be ready! Leave your father to me! We must get out by the roof. There is no other way. The firemen are up there. They’ll soon break through with their axes. Don’t you hear them hammering on the trapdoor?”
“No,” she cried. “It isn’t the firemen. It’s Howard—Mr. Milmarsh! He can’t open that trap! Oh, can’t we help? Can’t we do something?”
The name Milmarsh was spoken by this girl as if he were a close friend! It struck the detective with peculiar force, and he resolved more than ever that the young man, as well as the girl, must be saved. Here was the end of his strange case, if only he could get every one clear of the fire!
But other things soon crowded these thoughts out of his mind—which, indeed, they had held only for a second or two. He rushed into the attic and seized a small pine table. This made a platform for him under the trapdoor, and enabled him to reach up and shoot back the bolt.
“It’s open!” he shouted.
Then he pushed his head through and found himself looking into the face of—either T. Burton Potter or Howard Milmarsh, he did not know which, for certain.